Stalking Harry Potter
by empathapathique
Summary: Pansy told herself to act natural, but she couldn’t quite remember how she naturally acted around Harry Potter. She certainly wasn’t nice to him, but she didn’t think it exactly fit to glare at him when he hadn’t done anything wrong yet. Shameless PPHP.
1. Part 1

35

Title: Stalking Harry Potter 1/4

Author's Name: Empath Apathique

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Bad language, but that's about it.

Disclaimer: JKR owns Harry, even though I certainly wouldn't mind taking him off her hands.

Beta's name: Floorcoaster the Amazing for the heavy stuff, and emm718 for making sure Pansy was cool. And, of course, to elyaeru, who kept me together with my grammar and stuff in chapters one and two.

Author's Note: This killed me. Meh.

Summary: Pansy told herself to act natural, but she couldn't quite remember how she naturally acted around Harry Potter. She certainly wasn't nice to him, but she didn't think it exactly fit to glare at him when he hadn't done anything wrong yet.

- - - - - - - -

Harry Potter bought his underwear from the second-hand robe shop.

Ew.

He'd been standing in the unmentionables aisle for five minutes now, holding a four-pack of plain cotton boxer shorts in one hand and a package of colored shorts in the other, looking at the packaging and apparently debating the merits of both in his head.

To Potter's credit, the second-hand robe shop didn't carry second-hand underwear. Dozen of unopened packages of Wizards Best men's underwear were lined in long neat rows along the aisle. Each package had the same picture of a nearly naked wizard on its cover, his muscular torso and thighs exposed and his groin covered by cotton shorts. The model looked shockingly similar to Oliver Wood, and Pansy wondered if _this _was what he'd been doing during the war: letting people take pictures of his boy bits while everyone else fought for their lives. Or, as in the case of she and Hermione Granger, locked away for two years by Lucius Malfoy. But everyone couldn't be a hero, she supposed, and everyone certainly wasn't worthy enough of Lucius Malfoy's notice for the deranged man to actually hold them prisoner in his esteemed estate. She and Granger were simply special.

Right.

On each package, the word 'irregular' was stamped in bright red ink directly over Wood's face. Potter put two packages of colored briefs into his basket.

Merlin, she couldn't believe he was actually buyingthem.

But it was exactly like Potter to do something as simple-minded as buy irregular underwear from the second-hand robe shop. He couldn't help it; he didn't know any better. He'd lived under a set of stairs for most of his early years, and Pansy was sure that anyone who'd make a kid live under their stairs certainly wouldn't take him shopping so he'd know where to get his underwear.

Now that she thought about it, Potter's Muggle relatives had probably made him wear underwear that really _was_ second-hand. That's why he didn't see anything wrong with buying the things from the second-hand robe shop. He probably saw it as one-step up from wearing actual second-hand underwear.

Not to mention that the Weasleys shopped here. And even though Pansy said that she would be better and learn to be more accepting of other lifestyles and all that _shite_ Granger preached, she couldn't help the curl of her lip when she thought about the portly matriarch of the family ambling about the second-hand robe shop, picking up packages of irregular undies for her entire brood. _She_ did it, so Potter probably thought it was okay for him to do it as well.

Pansy almost felt bad for him. No one had ever told him how incredibly _wrong _this was.

But Merlin, he'd probably get a rash or something from them. It couldn't possibly be healthy to have such low-quality material against his leaky hose. She told herself that it was a very good thing that she wasn't sleeping with him, or having any sort of contact with Potter's Down There. Fanny Boo was only used to the best, and Potter's _thing_—while immensely desirable, considering the fine piece of manmeat Potter himself was—wouldn't be getting anywhere near her if it had a _rash_. As if.

She made a small note that this new tidbit of information about Potter's potential rash would certainly help with her I-Don't-Like-Harry-Potter-No-I-Do-_Not_ cause. Because who'd want to sleep with a man who had a rash? Not Pansy Parkinson, that was for sure.

It'd be item number twenty-seven on her list "Why Harry Potter—the Stupid, _Stupid_ Man—Was Too Stupid To Get With the Gorgeous and Desirable Pansy P" (or, Why Potter SUCKS for short).

She reminded herself that she didn't want to sleep with Potter anyway, and cursed silently for the slipup.

But Potter was moving again.

Fifteen feet away, Pansy took interest in a drab orange robe on the rack next to her. She held it above her face, pretending to inspect it for its merits while subtly matching Potter's movements. The only merit the thing had was that it'd probably make for good recycling material, but Pansy kept her thoughts to herself. She made sure to maintain the fifteen-foot distance between them, halting the small steps she'd been taking forward when Potter stopped at the sock bin.

"That's a lovely robe you have there, young lady," an elderly witch commented. The woman was gray and wrinkled, and the hunch of her back looked so painful that Pansy made a mental note to herself to instruct posterity to kill her if she ever got to this point. Euthanasia was what they called it, right?

Whatever.

Pansy nodded politely at the woman, taking care not to draw unnecessary attention to herself. "I think it takes a certain kind of woman to pull it off correctly," she said diplomatically. The only person Pansy thought could pull off wearing the robe without looking like a commode full of vomit would have to be about ninety—just about old-hunchback's age—but she didn't say that. She was getting the hang of this not-offending-everyone-she-met-with-her-sparkling-personality thing. Granger would be proud.

The older woman chuckled to herself and leaned in close to say, "Darling, all it takes is a _decent_ kind of woman." She smelled like twenty-year-old mothballs, and Pansy struggled not to make a face. "This is the kind of thing girls would go around in during my day. But there's been quite a decline in respectability these days, and young women will traipse around in nearly nothing now." She _tsked_ disapprovingly.

Pansy was thankful she was wearing trousers.

The woman patted Pansy's arm kindly. "I think you'll look just fine, dear," she said. "If you ask me …" She leaned in close again—closer than she had before, "there aren't enough young women like you around anymore."

Pansy mentally gagged at the woman's odor, but she smiled and unceremoniously threw the dreadful thing in her shopping cart. She feigned interest in an old beat-up bolero further down the aisle, pushing the old woman's words and _smell_ out of her head as she kept an eye on Boy Wonder.

Potter, she realized, was an annoyingly indecisive shopper. He was still at the sock bin, now debating whether to buy the ankle-length socks or the tube socks he had in his hands. And this was totally going to be item twenty-eight, because she could never be with anyone this obsessive. Pansy wanted to march over to him and whack him in the face with a pack, then yell at him that they were _just socks_ and that they weren't good enough to merit such introspection. But this was supposed to be a covert operation, and shit would surely hit the fan if she marched over there and did exactly what she wanted to the simplest man in wizarding Britain.

Granger liked to argue that Potter _couldn't_ be the simplest man in wizarding Britain—she felt Ron Weasley held the title hands down—however Pansy was fairly certain that she and Granger had two completely different perceptions of Harry Potter. Granger saw Potter as the boy he'd been—the brother she'd never had. Pansy saw Potter as a man, albeit a very stupid one.

But even though Potter was stupid, he was a very nosey man, and usually called on some distant reserves of intelligence that managed to help him discover exactly what he wanted to know.

If Potter saw her, he would undoubtedly ask her what she was doing in the second-hand robe shop, and even though Pansy was quite capable of lying straight to Harry Potter's face, he was impulsive and unpredictable, and could do one of two things. He could:

A) follow her around the shop and pester her as to what exactly she was doing with that atrocious, size eighteen, orange robe in her cart until he frustrated her to the point that she Apparated away (because Merlin knew she'd never tell him she was following him).

Or

B) be suspicious, but choose to just let it go, all the while constantly looking over his shoulder for the remainder of his shopping trip because he suspected that she might be following him and wanted to catch her in the act. And he _would_ suspect this. Pansy had no business in the second-hand robe shop, and whenever Pansy did anything remotely out of character around Potter, he always assumed that it had something to do with him. It just happened to be Pansy's misfortune that the sneaky bugger was always right. (Item sixteen on her list).

With Pansy's luck, he'd probably opt to go with the latter course of action, and because he was Harry Bloody Potter and had tore Voldemort a new one, he'd totally catch her. Because _hello_, he was Harry Potter.

And yeah, Pansy wanted to avoid all that if she could. She'd spent way too much time and sacrificed far too much of her dignity on this whole charade to be caught by Potter _now_.

So there would be no sock-slapping. She could deal with that.

Granger would say that she was growing up. Joy.

Pansy sighed. She didn't take it as a good sign that she was just _okay_ with things nowadays. Her bratty I-get-everything-I-damn-well-_please_ traits hadn't deserted her completely, however her sense of entitlement wasn't anywhere near what it'd been in the past. She knew the change was a product of the time she'd spent locked away in Malfoy Manor during the war, but she had thought that she would return to her old self as soon as she escaped the hell hole. She hadn't.

She was a completely different Pansy Parkinson these days, and if that wasn't bad enough, the world was completely different, too. For one thing, it wasn't nearly the mess it'd been in the past. Without there being any obscenely powerful psychotic wizards and his equally deranged followers around, it was a relatively chill place. It seemed that Pansy did not know how to function in chill places, for she often found herself floundering in this place.

She blamed Harry Potter. After all, he had been the one to kill Voldemort, i.e., The Big Fat Wanker Who Was Making the World a Mess. And even though it was great that Snake Man was dead and not making a mess anymore, someone had to be blamed for all the trouble Pansy was having, and since Potter was currently responsible for half of the things going wrong in her life, she didn't think it was unfair to blame him for this too.

Pansy glanced down at her wrist, reaching for the bracelet that was no longer there. There was a familiar sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach at the remembrance, and she cursed herself for being stupid—_so_ stupid—for looking because the bracelet had been broken for months. But she'd always toyed with her bracelet, whether she was nervous or thoughtful or bored, and it seemed that wouldn't change, despite the fact that the bracelet was no longer there.

The diamond trinket had been a family heirloom, a glittering piece that had been given to her great-great grandmother, the famous Musidora Barkwith, from Pansy's great-great grandfather on their wedding day. Musidora had been way out of old Parkinson's league, and he'd charmed the sought-after singer from her homeland of Norway with a slew of expensive jewels. They had been passed down to Pansy when her mother had died, though Pansy was barely six at the time, and she had hardly seen the significance of the jewels beyond the fact that they were _shiny._ She'd realized their importance as she grew and had taken a supreme amount of pleasure in showing her girlfriends all the diamonds she had _without _a husband.

"Who needs a husband when I have all this?" she had said to Daphne and Tracey when she'd shown them the collection. The girls had stared, saucer-eyed, at the invaluable jewelry in their display cases. "I hardly need Draco Malfoy at all."

Daphne and Tracey had envied her, both for her jewels and her boyfriend, and Pansy had relished it. She'd loved how important being envied made her feel and had made up all kinds of stories about the jewels and the places she wore them in order to make her friends even _more_ jealous of her. With her mother dead, there was only Pansy and her father, and a man of her father's status was far too busy running the family's shipping business and socializing with his business associates to take notice of his only child's desperate need of attention. Pansy had had her friends and herself, and she'd made do with that.

Her friends hadn't needed to know that she wasn't allowed to go any nearer to the jewelry than they were. She hadn't received full ownership of them until she'd turned seventeen and was of age, and had spent her youth admiring them from the cases just as they had.

But of all the pieces in the massive jewelry collection Musidora had amassed, Pansy still had only ever worn one of them: the bracelet.

The thing was more of a bangle, really, nearly an inch wide. It was expertly crafted, the maker creating a beautiful net-like structure of connected boxes contained within a delicately curved boarder. Diamonds were inlaid along every piece of white gold used in constructing the initial structure, with a larger diamond placed at the junctures where the boxes connected. Along the curves that bordered the piece were beautiful diamond encrusted crowns; they were created from six petal-like shapes, one on its side acting as a base and the other five fanning out at the top to create the curved points.

The bracelet was hardly the most exquisite piece in old Musidora's collection; however, it held the appeal of memory that no other had. Her mother had worn jewelry often, though the bracelet was undoubtedly her favorite. Pansy could remember kneeling by the woman's side as she sat at her vanity, the bracelet already around her wrist as she affixed massive stones to her ears. Her father would clasp a breathtaking necklace around her mother's neck, whispering words that Pansy couldn't hear into her mother's ear. Her mother would giggle, whispering something back that her father found equally amusing. The two had been completely entranced by one another, undeniably in love, and often had moments just like that: smiling and laughing with one another as if no one else existed in the world. Pansy could remember how utterly excluded she'd felt then, kneeling beside them as she watched a display she wouldn't understand until she was much, much older, and hoping for the same thing with a man of her own.

But Mummy would eventually remember her, looking down to her side and grabbing Pansy beneath her arms as she pulled the small girl into her lap. Father would leave to finish getting ready for the opera or theater or wherever they were going that night, and Mummy would let Pansy play in her makeup, applying blush to her cheeks with her fingers and streaking eyeliner across her face in a disastrous pattern in an effort to be like the beautiful woman she adored.

In time, her parents would have to leave, and her mother would sit her on the bathroom sink and gently wipe the makeup and tears from Pansy's face, telling her that she would return soon, and they could play in her makeup more in the morning. Through the cloud of tears in Pansy's eyes, the bracelet would glitter magnificently, blinding Pansy's sight to the extent that she could only see her mother's bright eyes and her mother's bright smile amidst all the sparkle. It was one of her dearest memories.

Pansy's father had gifted her with the bracelet on her thirteenth birthday. Pansy was an admittedly spoiled girl, and as such, she was accustomed to receiving extravagant gifts from her over-indulgent father. However, the bracelet trumped any present she'd ever received. Even now, seven years later, she couldn't remember receiving something that she'd cherished quite as much as she had the bracelet. She'd scarcely taken it off at all—even to bathe—and the only time the piece had left her wrist for any extended period of time had been when she'd given it to Harry Potter. She'd been incarcerated in Malfoy Manor at the time; she and Granger had been planning their escape, and Potter—and her bracelet—had been an integral part in making their plan succeed.

No one had expected it. In essence, she and Granger had been attempting what had been considered wholly impossible at the time. No one had managed a successful escape from Malfoy Manor since it'd been built; the wards placed upon it during its construction used magic so old no one knew how to deal with it anymore. Not to mention the additional wards Lucius Malfoy had applied to the place, and everyone and their Aunt Sally knew that Lucius Malfoy's wards were unbreakable.

Disregarding those wards, Lucius Malfoy implemented additional wards to guarantee the retention of his prisoners. There were wards placed upon the area in which the prisoner was confined, preventing them from leaving, and even wards placed upon the prisoner's very person. These personal wards served two purposes: they provided additional containment of the prisoner and a system that would alert Lucius in the event a prisoner ever _did_ accomplish the impossible and managed to escape.

However, escaping Malfoy Manor was not simply a matter of breaking wards. Lucius would be alerted the moment something went amiss; the front door was seemingly miles from the dungeons; and, of course, there were five additional miles to clear before the escapee was beyond the manor's grounds and able to Apparate safely away.

Escape wasn't conceivable—not with the limited resources available to one locked away in the dungeons.

Impossible, everyone said. Lucius Malfoy had believed this unequivocally.

It was rather unfortunate for him that, for once, his cool, calculating intellect had failed him, and he'd completely underestimated what the women in his care could do if they ever put their heads together. And even though the set up he'd ensnared them with should've prevented them from ever seeing each other, Lucius Malfoy was so secure in his knowledge of Pansy's complete and utter empty-headedness that he had allowed her to do whatever she pleased—save leave the west wing of the manor. He'd never thought that she'd wander down into the dungeons, which happened to be just a few floors beneath where she was kept. He'd never thought that she'd deign to speak to Hermione Granger, either.

Lucius Malfoy was right: Malfoy Manor was inescapable. The foolish man just so happened to give Pansy and, as a result, Hermione Granger, the means to do it.

But that was getting ahead of herself. There was far more to the story than that.

Whenever anyone talked about what happened to Pansy Parkinson the spring that she turned eighteen, they always said that she was 'kidnapped' by Lucius Malfoy. But really, that wasn't what happened at all. There was no actual 'kidnapping.' Lucius hadn't snuck into her home and stolen her from her bed under the cloak of night, or snatched her while she was out with her friends shopping in Diagon Alley. All Lucius Malfoy had done was invite Pansy for tea at Malfoy Manor the day before her birthday. There was no spiking of the tea, or use of other underhanded methods to incapacitate her. They merely had tea, during which Lucius Malfoy detailed his plan for luring his wayward son back home.

It was March, and by that point, it'd been exactly ten months since Draco had officially deserted the teachings of the Dark Lord and decided to join up with Harry Potter and his stupid friends. Draco had discovered Voldemort's true heritage through Hermione Granger and had told his father that he didn't believe anyone who was a half-blood themselves could preach pureblood supremacy and call for the purging of those from whom he'd received half his heritage. He would not follow someone with such flawed logic, and thought his father was a fool for doing so. Besides, Draco was _in love_ with one of the people that the Dark Lord wanted to purge, and he couldn't have anyone harming a single hair on his precious little Mudblood's head.

Lucius' reaction, of course, had been epic. Details aren't necessary; the imagination will suffice.

Pansy had spent the months following Draco's betrayal deluding herself into believing that Draco would come to his senses and return to her soon enough. They'd been betrothed while they were still in nappies, and had been dating since their third year at Hogwarts. Granted, Draco had always taken to dallying with other girls to relieve himself of that tension all teenaged boys fell victim too, and by the middle of sixth year, he'd told her that they were through. But Pansy had always believed that he would come back to her. People of their standing knew the importance of honor and fulfilling one's duty to one's family, and Draco's duty clearly entailed marrying a highly well-bred, eligible girl such as herself. He'd be back, she had kept saying. A Mudblood could never make him happy.

She'd been naïve back then. It was painful to remember.

During their tea, it was apparent to Pansy where Draco got his smoothness. Lucius Malfoy could charm Augusta Longbottom out of her knickers; he had no difficulty at all in convincing Pansy to go along with his plan.

"Draco loves you, my dear," he'd said. "Oh, he loves you so much he knows not what to do with all the love he has in his heart—which is why he turned away from you sixth year, Pansy darling. The sheer power of his love scared him, and I'm saddened to say that, like a coward, he ran away from it." He'd looked contrite for emphasis.

Pansy had hung on to his every word, believing everything he said out of her need to validate the lies she'd been telling herself for the past months.

"But do not fear, Pansy, for such love could not be diminished by the passage of time, or the presence of any… distractions." His lip had curled in revulsion at the thought of Draco's involvement with the Order of the Phoenix's war effort and Hermione Granger—the biggest distraction of them all.

"What ever can I do, Mr. Malfoy?" Pansy had asked desperately. "How can I bring him back to me?"

"The Mudblood has poisoned his mind with lies, Pansy, and has made him turn away from our Lord."

Pansy had glared at her teacup. She hadn't cared one bit about which side of the war Draco was on so long as he was with her. But that Mudblood … "Oh, I wish I could get my hands on the filthy girl! I'd teach her a thing or two about touching what doesn't belong to her…"

"There, there, Pansy," he had said, patting her hand gently. "He has a duty to fulfill, and that duty includes marrying a well-bred girl such as yourself, not some filthy dalliance from his school days. However, we are lucky, my dear, that his love for you is so strong." Pansy had beamed. "We need only to remind young Draco of his overwhelming love for you, and the Mudblood's spell will be broken, and we will have our Draco back with us again."

Pansy's mouth had been agape in wonder, her eyes wide with an excited hope that she'd finally have her man again. And she'd known right then that she'd do anything Lucius would ask of her, no questions asked. "What do I have to do?" she had said. "I'll do _anything_, Mr. Malfoy. Tell me, _what do I have to do?"_

She'd played right into his hands.

Lucius' plan had been simple. In order to remind Draco of the love he'd once possessed for dear Pansy, he would send Draco a letter saying that he'd kidnapped the poor girl and would do her serious bodily harm if Draco did not come home. However, Draco was no fool, and they had to make sure the charade appeared as real as possible. Pansy would be held "prisoner" in the unused west wing of Malfoy Manor until Draco came for her. Pansy was instructed to return home after their tea and pack up all of the things she would need to be comfortable. "Comfortable" for Pansy included her entire bedroom and her two personal house-elves, but Lucius didn't mind. He had told her that she would have all the space she needed, seeing as she wasn't a _real_ prisoner, and he would never do anything as distasteful as set up his future daughter-in-law in the dungeons. The words had brought tears to Pansy's eyes, and she'd even hugged Lucius Malfoy after he'd said them. He'd patted her head politely and had promptly removed her arms from her around him, then told her that he would expect her in the morning.

Pansy had done exactly as Lucius instructed. She'd packed while her father attended a late business meeting. She'd assumed correctly that he'd think she was in bed when he returned home. He hadn't bothered to check if she was in bed since she was twelve, and hadn't realized she was missing until the next day, the morning of her eighteenth birthday. He'd contacted the authorities immediately.

The damage had already been done. Essentially, Pansy had kidnapped herself.

The setup had been fine, for a while. She had everything she needed from home, and if she wanted something else, she needed only to tell her house-elves, and they retrieved it for her. She was allowed to send and receive mail from select Slytherin compatriots whom Lucius deemed loyal to the Dark Lord's cause. However, other than Lucius himself during their Wednesday tea, she wasn't allowed visitors.

"People don't have visitors when they're kidnapped, Pansy," Lucius had explained calmly.

He had been right, of course, so Pansy hadn't had visitors. Kidnapped people didn't write letters to their friends holidaying in Spain, or have two house-elves to wait on them hand and foot, either. It was the first time in her life that she'd ever resolved to be thankful for what she had and stop pushing for more. She'd been lonely, but she told herself that she'd be rewarded for her suffering in the future, when Draco returned to her.

Lucius had conveniently forgotten to mention the high-powered wards he'd placed on the entire west wing of the manor and, more specifically, _her_—the same wards she and Granger would work so diligently to disable in the two years that followed. Pansy had discovered all too painfully what would happen to her if she decided to venture out of her domain. She'd received such a powerful jolt of power that she'd been knocked unconscious for hours.

"The wards are for your safety, Pansy," Lucius had explained when she awoke. "If you leave and someone sees you, word could get back to Draco and he won't come. In addition, there's a war going on now, and as you're currently staying in my home, it's my responsibility to keep you safe."

Again, she'd put her faith in the elder Malfoy and his lies.

But the days soon turned to weeks, and still there'd been no sign that Draco even knew that Pansy had been kidnapped, let alone that he was going to rescue her. Lucius had told her to be patient during their weekly tea—that Draco was being his usual bullheaded self and needed more convincing. He'd told her that all would be well.

Lucius had promised her weekly access to the extensive Malfoy Library, and suggested that Pansy take to improving her mind to occupy her time. Pick up an instructional manual or two, he'd said. Learn an instrument.

Pansy hadn't appreciated the insinuation that her mind needed improving, or that she needed to learn something more that whatever she'd picked up at Hogwarts. What did Lucius Malfoy know about her or what was in her head, anyway? But she'd figured that giving her future father-in-law a piece of her mind wouldn't ensure cordial relations between she and the elder Malfoy once she and Draco were married.

It said something about her complete and utter naiveté that who exactly Lucius Malfoy was hadn't factored in to this decision at all. She had known he was a Death Eater, and that he hurt people. She'd heard the noises from the dungeons, the screams, every night. When she'd asked him about them, he'd told her not worry; he was merely questioning the Order scum who'd murdered Gregory Goyle, he'd said, and promised her that he'd try to conduct his interrogations more quietly from now on. Pansy hadn't known that Greg was dead, and she wondered who on earth would do such a thing to the boy. She hadn't known that he'd died trying to kidnap Hermione Granger.

So Pansy had gone to the library. She'd taken out the instructional manuals as Lucius had suggested; she'd learned to knit, to make soap.

It was too bad for Lucius that patience had never been one of Pansy's strong suits. By the time four months had passed, Pansy had become thoroughly fed up with waiting and knitting hats and making soap, and had taken to finding other means of distraction. Namely, wandering through the west wing. But there really wasn't much to see in the unused wing other than stuffy rooms filled with ancient Malfoy family heirlooms and other boring things of that nature. She knew the place like the back of her hand after two weeks, and took to going where she absolutely knew she shouldn't go: the dungeons.

Pansy hadn't heard the screams since she'd mentioned them to Lucius, and she'd wondered if he'd been telling the truth about conducting his questioning more quietly, or if there was no longer a person to question at all. There had only been one way to find out. Her self-preservation instincts told her that it would be far safer if she stayed away from the dark basement—Lucius may have let her do whatever she pleased, but she didn't think he'd be too happy to find out she was playing with his prisoners. But she supposed she had a bit of Gryffindor in her as well, because she hadn't been scared at all. Definitely some Gryffindor. Only those wankers would be so stupid.

The completely ironic part of it all was that it was the bit of Gryffindor in her that had led her to find her very own Gryffindor. Hermione Granger was the sole person locked in the dungeons. The screams had been hers.

A shrill laugh interrupted Pansy's thoughts, and she looked up to find Potter at the checkout counter, talking to a teenaged sales clerk. She wore a large bright yellow pin that said, 'Hi, I'm Margaret!' She was pretty, Pansy supposed, in a homey kind of way. Her hair was long and dark, and she flushed prettily and gave that horrible laugh whenever Potter smiled. Pansy couldn't hear what they were saying, but they appeared to be chatting amiably as Margaret rang up Potter's irregular underwear.

Potter looked confused when 'Hi, I'm Margaret!' rang up the socks. He held up a package of socks, then pointed to the price on the bin and then back at the socks in his hand. Pansy rolled her eyes. This was exactly what she meant about him being simple. She didn't know if it was a _man_ thing or a _Potter_ thing, but she had never met anyone so utterly _hopeless_ in her entire life. He had absolutely no reason to be concerned with something as trivial as the price of socks. Everyone knew that his parents had left him quite a bit when they died, and word had it that the Ministry had rewarded Potter _very_ handsomely for kicking Voldemort's teeth in. He had more than enough money to pay for a stupid pair of ankle socks from the second-hand robe shop, no arguing with 'Hi, I'm Margaret!' necessary.

The talk appeared to be getting a little heated, with more frequent finger-pointing and slightly raised voices, and Pansy rolled her eyes. She could just barely hear Potter, the low timbre of his voice managing to bring a smile to her lips even though she thought he was being completely ridiculous. She hadn't seen him in three whole months, since the night he and his lot received their shiny Order of Merlin's. Granger had received one as well. Pansy had not.

She wasn't jealous or anything. Okay, maybe she was, but she didn't have the same need to have everyone look at her to validate her existence as she had in the past. She was a big girl now, and she could recognize blatant prejudice where she saw it and rise above it, because she didn't need an ugly medal to tell her she was bad arse anyway.

Ministry officials had said Granger's award was for the contributions she'd made to the war effort before she was captured by Lucius Malfoy. Her patriotic acts were impossible to count, they'd said. Apparently, they were impossible to mention too; in comparison to everyone else, no specific reason had been announced when Granger was called to receive her award.

Pansy absolutely was _not_ jealous.

Granger thought the Ministry reasoned that they couldn't give Potter and Weasley an award without giving her one, too. They were Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Their names always went together, and apparently the world thought they had to receive their awards together, too. Granger had been of the mind not to accept the award at all, until Pansy had mentioned that both of them deserved at least _some _kind of acknowledgment for being the only people who had managed to escape from Malfoy Manor since bloody _ever_. Granger had agreed, and she'd sent half of her medal in the mail to Pansy a few days later.

Pansy smiled at the memory. This thing she had with Hermione Granger—friendship, or whatever it was—was the only good thing that had come out of her stay at Malfoy Manor.

Granger had called it fate. Kismet and all that. Because really, what were the chances that a girl as diehard Slytherin to the core as Pansy Musidora Parkinson would have even a smidgen of Gryffindor folly somewhere inside of her? And that she'd actually be placed into some godforsaken situation that would let that problematic little quirk express itself?

The chances were as likely as Vince Crabbe putting together an eloquent sentence of evincing application of knowledge.

It wasn't supposed to happen. It was ridiculous and improbable and all the more reason why it had to be the work of some higher force.

She'd been a fright when Pansy first saw her, thin and dirty with a stench akin to that of a stable. Pansy hadn't recognized her at first, and after five minutes of calling _hey yous_ into the cell and not receiving any response, she'd thought the girl had gone over the deep end and wouldn't be coming back any time soon. Which would be absolutely no fun for Pansy, and did nothing to excite her day. Pansy had turned to leave when she'd realized that the quiet hum she'd been hearing since she'd been in front of her cell had been the girl's voice.

She'd been murmuring to herself, quietly, quickly, and when Pansy had actually stopped to listen, she could make out her words: Mugworth's third principle of the magical properties of the number seven, word for word. It was sixth year Arithmancy. Pansy had taken Arithmancy with Granger since fifth year, and she could never forget that voice, eagerly answering Professor Vector's questions before anyone else had a chance to respond.

"Granger?" she'd exclaimed, shocked and confused and on some level, completely ecstatic that she had discovered _something_.

Her murmuring had stopped abruptly and, very stiffly, Granger turned her head to stare at Pansy through the metal bars of her cell. Pansy had been taken aback by the utterly empty look to her eyes. "It's you, isn't it?" she'd whispered. "It's _you_."

Pansy had begun to rattle on about the implications of her presence in the dungeons, chattering endlessly to the otherwise completely unresponsive girl. She'd gone on for a full half-hour, when Granger had turned away from her to stare back up at the ceiling.

"Are you quite finished?" she'd said, her voice sounding eerily neutral.

Her voice had surprised Pansy as well, and she'd found herself not knowing what to say.

"Go away," Granger had said.

And, well. That hadn't gone over well with Pansy, to say the least. She'd proceeded to rant and rave at the listless girl, telling her that she had every right to do what she very well pleased and the likes of her could do nothing to stop her. She'd called Granger this and that, trampled over her inferior heritage more times than necessary, and made ghastly accusations as to the girl's relations with her supposed best friends and the entirety of the Weasley clan. She'd stomped away afterwards, fuming, though completely sure that she'd totally trumped never-shuts-her-mouth Hermione Granger. It hadn't been until later that Pansy had realized that they hadn't had much of an argument, considering Pansy had been the only one who'd really said anything, and that hadn't sat well with her at all. There had to be a rematch, she'd told herself. She'd gone down to the dungeons the very next day, and had accosted Granger again.

By that point, Granger had moved on to reciting potion ingredients and their special properties, and had refused to acknowledge Pansy in any way. Pansy had told herself that she only went down there because Granger didn't want her to—had told her to _go away_—and she absolutely did not take orders from anyone, especially people who smelled like _her_.

It had been around then that Pansy had realized that Granger couldn't possibly argue with her, seeing as she was half-starved and looked as if she had been for months, and couldn't possibly have the energy to argue back with Pansy even if she'd wanted to. And for some godforsaken reason, she'd been struck by a pang of humanity that had decided it was a nice time to rear its ugly head, and had sent her house-elves down to the dungeons to fix the girl up. Pansy had known that nothing the two elves could do would immediately restore Granger to her normal state in the space of a day in order for Pansy to have her rematch. But seeing Granger that way had been more than a little pitiful, and Pansy hadn't been able to help how completely angry she'd been at Lucius for doing it to her. No woman deserved to be reduced to such a state by a man—lingering just at death's door; a forgotten meal probably all it would take to push her over the edge. She'd remembered suddenly that Granger was the person who'd killed Greg, and even though she'd known that she _should_ want Granger to suffer for doing such a thing, actually seeing the suffering Lucius was inflicting upon the girl was enough to change her mind. No one deserved that.

Nursing Granger back to health had been a slow process, and Pansy had garnered an understanding of both the frailty and the strength of the human body. She hadn't quite understood how Granger had survived what she'd been through, and recognizing her strength had been the beginning of the change of Pansy's opinion about the girl.

Not that she'd told Granger this. Even while Pammy and Dimple—Pansy's house-elves—had been nursing the girl back to health, Pansy had still gone down into the dungeons to harass the girl. Looking back on it now, she wasn't proud of her behavior at all. She'd been so self-absorbed it was painful to remember. However, even when Granger had started to regain her strength, she had never responded to Pansy's hateful words. Before long, weeks had passed, and Pansy could no longer find it in her to yell at someone who was playing dead.

And then, out of the blue, she'd looked at Granger and had asked, "Why did you kill Greg?"

Pansy hadn't expected a response. She hadn't even known why she'd asked. After the silence had stretched on for as long as Pansy thought she could take, she'd stood up to leave. She'd told herself that she was done with Hermione Granger, and that the mute girl could rot down there for all Pansy cared.

"Does he know you come here?"

Pansy had been startled by the question, not expecting anything from the woman—especially not another question. "Who?"

"Malfoy."

"No," she'd answered, then said, a little uncertainly, "I don't think so." She'd remembered her original thought that Lucius wouldn't take her visits well, and for the first time, she'd begun to truly fear his reaction. "Have you… have mentioned it to him?"

"He doesn't come here anymore."

"Oh." She'd exhaled a sigh of relief, though frowned. It'd bothered her a little, that Lucius paid her so little mind. "I do what I want here," she'd told Granger. She hadn't known why she'd said it, but it'd been four weeks since she'd first found Granger. By that point, she'd talked to the bint so much it'd become natural to just _say_ things to her. Mostly because she'd known that Granger wouldn't respond. "Everything but leave." There'd been a pause. "At least I have my own room," she'd said, familiar condescension seeping into her tone. "I'd hate to be in here with _you_, Granger. You _reek_."

"Just a bigger cage," she'd replied.

"It's _not_ a cage," Pansy had insisted, feeling an overwhelming need to explain herself and her room. "People don't have the _stuff_ I have in a cage. I'm not a prisoner here—not like you."

Granger, of course, hadn't responded.

"Besides, it's only temporary," she'd said quickly, still trying to explain to this girl—to get her to believe what she'd slowly begun to question. "Only until Draco comes back home. Then we'll be together and—"

"He won't come."

"He _will_. I just have to wait a little longer and—"

Granger had turned to her then, and Pansy could still remember the feeling of her heart dropping to her feet when she'd seen the tears in Granger's eyes. "He won't."

Their friendship began from there. They hadn't liked each other one bit, but the two of them knew, on some level, that any kind of human contact was good contact, and neither was of the mind to go completely nutters from being alone. They'd argued about everything: Hogwarts and Arithmancy and the magical properties of the number seven. They argued about Draco and sex and the liberation of house-elves, and about life and the war, and Pansy's horrid knitting. Only, they weren't always arguing. After a few weeks had passed, they'd just talk to each other. Like they were friends.

And, like a true friend, Granger had supplied Pansy with the information she'd dreaded hearing since she'd begun to suspect that Lucius wasn't being completely truthful with her. She and Granger hadn't ever talked about the reason why they were both in Malfoy Manor. Pansy had mentioned that she was only to be there until Draco came for her, though after Granger's emotional insistence that he wouldn't, Pansy hadn't brought that matter up again. But it'd started her thinking about Granger's words: if Granger—who'd spent the last year with Draco—could say with such certainty that Draco wouldn't come, then… Well. Then Pansy was smart enough to believe her.

However, Lucius had believed wholeheartedly that his son would return. He'd made sure to tell her so every week when they took tea, though with Granger's words floating around in her head, Pansy hadn't been able to find it in herself to believe him anymore. Draco _had_ said that they were through, after all, and he openly proclaimed that he was in love with Granger. Granger had seemed sure that the man loved her and well, Pansy had started to believe her. It hurt like hell, however the pain had helped her to realize the truth behind the setup Lucius had trapped her in: Draco would never come for her. Because he'd said they were through and he was in love with Granger and he wouldn't give two fucks about some stupid entanglement stupidstupid_stupid_ Pansy Parkinson managed to get herself into with his father.

And Lucius had known all along. He'd lied to her.

Pansy hadn't been there to entice Draco back home; it had been Granger.

She'd been left to wonder why on earth Lucius had wanted _her_ there. But, like a brick to the face, it'd hit her so hard she'd felt like she'd been slammed into a wall.

His words from their tea so many months ago had come back to her like a bad dream:

"_He has a duty to fulfill," _he had said, _"and that duty includes marrying a well-bred girl such as yourself, not some filthy dalliance from his school days."_

And that was when Pansy understood what a complete and utter _basketcase_ Draco's father was, because _she_ had only been there to serve as a distraction for his son when Lucius managed to get him back home—a soft and willing and_ pureblooded_ body for him to vent his frustrations. And, later, when the war was over and Voldemort had won—because Lucius expected no different—she would help Draco fulfill his duty to his family, and become the model Malfoy bride. A breeding vessel expected to produce perfect, pedigreed boys.

Draco hadn't loved her. She'd been bombarding by that fact daily in her meetings with Granger. To realize Lucius true intentions for her had been like pouring salt on the proverbial wound.

Pansy would not have the moments with Draco that her mother had with her father all those years ago. She would not be loved. Her heart had been broken, and the next time she'd seen Lucius Malfoy, she'd demanded to be released. Pansy had no inclination to be a docile bride in a loveless marriage and had told Lucius that if _that_ was what he was looking for, he was going to have to find someone else to play the role of damsel in distress because _she_ wasn't doing it anymore.

Lucius had continued to sip his tea straight through Pansy's self-righteous rant, then, calmly, had placed his teacup on the table, stood, and then slapped Pansy so hard across the face that she'd fallen right out of her seat. Her mouth had filled with blood, and she'd stared up fearfully at the demon Lucius had suddenly transformed into, standing over her and shouting that she'd do as he said and for however long he wanted her to, or she'd find herself at the wrong end of a wand. And then he'd become calm again, helping Pansy back up to her seat and handing her his handkerchief before sitting down and finishing his tea.

And yeah, she'd been scared. More frightened than she'd ever been in her life, actually. Because she was locked in an inescapable mansion by Lucius Malfoy—one of the most dangerous Death Eaters Voldemort employed—and Draco wasn't coming. And it wasn't even because he didn't love her; he loved Granger and he wasn't coming for her, either. He wasn't coming because he couldn't—because he'd grown up in the manor and knew first hand that it couldn't be done. There was no way to get in and get out and manage to survive.

Pansy and Granger were on their own. They'd begun planning their escape the very next day.

It was funny, almost, how quickly the tides had changed, how Pansy had suddenly found herself allying with the person she'd once thought she'd despise for all eternity for stealing Draco away. To be fair, Pansy hadn't exactly been Granger's favorite person at that time, either, but Pansy's daily forays down into the dungeons had made the two of them a bit more tolerant of each other than they'd been in the past. Besides, they'd both wanted to escape, and they'd known that they needed each other's help to do so. Granger was smart and Pansy was cunning, and Lucius Malfoy had been stupid enough to slap her around then let things go back to the way they'd been in the past. Because sure, Malfoy Manor was inescapable, but Lucius happened to have the Hermione Granger in his dungeons, and if anyone could figure out how to disable the wards, she could. She'd merely needed the resources to do so, and Pansy's access to the library—courtesy of the arsehole himself—provided the woman with said resources rather easily. While Granger had busied herself researching how to break the wards using books Pansy had smuggled from the library, Pansy carried out all sorts of risky and potentially life-threatening tasks to aid in the process. They couldn't have done it without each other. More importantly, they couldn't have done it without Potter.

He was always saving people. That was why everyone loved him, she supposed, because he was so gosh darn helpful. He'd done a lot for the wizarding world, and the wizarding world adored him for it. Pansy was thankful for what he'd done for her as well, however she wasn't exactly going to throw herself at his feet and just_ give_ herself to him for what he'd done. She'd never throw herself down for Harry Potter unless there would be a bed involved. And even though she woke up every morning and told herself _no, I _don't_ want him anymore,_ she was woman enough to admit that it was a lie because she clearly did. But she had to lie to herself. If she didn't, she'd go on with her day constantly thinking about how much she wanted his sexy body, and since she wasn't getting that sexy body, it was best to tell herself that she didn't want it. Even though she did. But told herself she didn't.

Yes, she confused herself too.

But everyone wanted to get into Potter's pants, so she wasn't too different from the female masses in that respect. However, Pansy thought that she'd gotten far closer to actually achieving this goal than all of the rest of the Potter worshippers in the world. After all, she and Potter had actually _kissed_, during which time Pansy had thoroughly molested his arse—which was, in her opinion, the juiciest arse in all of Britain—and had spent the steamiest five minutes of snogging in her life with him. She doubted anyone else could boast that.

Except maybe Ginny Weasley, but Pansy didn't like to think about Ginny Weasley. At all. Besides, she was nothing but Potter's _slag_ anyway. Or his girlfriend. Whatever.

Since the war, Potter had the world at his feet—literally. Everything was done to make sure Harry Potter was comfortable and happy and having the bloody time of his bloody life. It was serious. Dogs even stopped pissing when he was around. Everyone did what they could for him—and completely planted their faces to his arse in holy worship. It was probably why 'Hi, I'm Margaret!' looked so nervous now. Harry Potter was not pleased.

The problem? Well, apparently, the ankle socks had somehow been mixed in with the tube socks, and they weren't the same price. They were only a few Sickles more but Potter—the stupidly frugal man he was—wasn't too happy about it, and the poor girl looked on the verge on tears as a result.

"I'm very, very sorry, Mr. Potter," Pansy mimicked, making her voice more high-pitched and whiny than it usually was as she made up dialogue for the exchange she couldn't quite hear. She knew most people were more in awe of Harry Potter than she was, but she didn't think that Potter's upset warranted the wide-eyed desperate look 'Hi, I'm Margaret!' had.

"The socks are two different prices, Mr. Potter. The ankle socks are _three Sickles more_. I'm sorry, Mr. Potter, but I can lose _my job_ if sell them for the same price." There was a pause in the conversation. 'Hi, I'm Margaret!' looked down at the counter, and Pansy would swear she was blushing. She appeared to be saying something, and Pansy wondered what was so embarrassing to say that she was staring down at the counter blushing. Maybe she was offering Potter her virginity in return for him paying the three extra Sickles and she keeping her job. Taking one for the home team and all that. "Oh, Mr. Potter," Pansy said, "I would gladly give you my virginity instead, if you'd like."

Potter looked pacified and Pansy gagged. 'Hi, I'm Margaret!' was all giggles and smiles then, and Pansy wondered if Potter always had young virgins throwing themselves at him. He was an upright kind of guy, she supposed, but he had to be getting some from _somewhere_. He was a guy, after all, and no matter how upright the guy, in the end, didn't they _all_ want to get a piece of the pie?

At least, all normalmen wanted a piece of it. But Pansy would be the first to jump up and proclaim to the high heavens that Harry James Potter was certainly _not_ normal. He wasn't even close to normal. He wasn't even a mile away from it. Harry Potter was a _weirdo_, and that certainly had to say something in terms of his masculine proclivities towards the fairer sex. He wasn't the type to chase after skirts and use his hero status to charm Hogwarts girls right out of their knickers. But what did Pansy really know Harry Potter anyway, beyond Hogwarts and the Ministry's propaganda and the letters they'd send back and forth to each other when she was holed up in Malfoy Manor? She didn't know anything about him. Heck, they hardly got along half the time, and now she could totally understand why, considering Potter bought his underwear from the second-hand robe shop and she most certainly did _not_.

But then there was that annoying voice in her head, telling her that she knew quite a bit about Harry Potter and the kind of man he was, and that those letters counted for a helluva lot more than she liked to admit.

No, Potter wasn't the type of guy to use his butt-kicking status to get a free ride on some girl's choo choo train. And she really would've believed it too, had Potter not been smiling up at 'Hi, I'm Margaret!' as he scribbled something on a piece of paper. 'Hi, I'm Margaret!' bounced excitedly on her toes, her face flushed and happy, and Pansy's hands gripped the handle of the shopping cart so tightly her knuckles went white.

Potter said something and 'Hi, I'm Margaret!' laughed, and Pansy could just imagine the conversation they were having.

"Thank you, dear Margaret," she mocked, lowering her voice to a tone that didn't resemble Potter's at all. "I don't mind paying the extra three Sickles if I get to defile your maidenly honor instead." Margaret giggled again, and Pansy could just _imagine_ Potter giving her his 'Ooo-I-think-I'm-sexy' look. Pansy didn't knowif Potter had an 'Ooo-I-think-I'm-sexy' look, but that didn't matter. He was giving it to 'Hi, I'm Margaret!', and 'Hi, I'm Margaret!' was giggling again, and Pansy was _totally_ flipping out.

She started to approach the counter, eyes narrowed as she attempted to sneak up on Potter so she could run over the backs of his ankles. Ankles that wouldn't be covered by the stupid socks he'd just paid three sodding extra Sickles for but oh, that didn't matter, because he was inviting 'Hi, I'm Margaret!' the Hogwarts Whore, over to his place for some fun and she just couldn't _wait_ to ram the hell out of the dirty wanker's ankles. How dare he fool around with this _child_ when there were so many women—namely _her_—who were going out of their minds because they couldn't have him because he was dating Ginny I-Have-Hair-As-Red-As-Period-Blood Weasley.

Oh, she'd hit him so hard he'd _bleed._

"I write pretty small," Potter was saying.

"It's fine," 'Hi, I'm Margaret!' giggled.

Barely ten feet away, Pansy slowed the cart, her knuckles blossoming with red as blood reflowed back into her hands.

"Well, there you are."

"Oh, thank you so much, Mr. Potter!" she squealed. "My little brother will be so happy!"

Pansy felt her stomach drop, and she cursed aloud for being stupid. Of _course_ Potter wasn't giving 'Hi, I'm Margaret!' the extension to his private Floo line. He was an upright kind of guy, remember? He was writing an autograph for her little brother.

Pansy wanted to slap herself. She settled for cursing quite colorfully under her breath instead. There was a small noise to her left, and Pansy turned to find the same old woman from before looking at her, an astounded expression on her face. Pansy had the decency to blush.

"My _word_," she said loudly. "Of all the foul things I've _ever_ heard coming from a lady's lips—"

"This would look great on you," Pansy said suddenly, taking the orange horror out of her cart and handing it to the woman. The woman took it, holding it limply in her hand as she continued to stare at Pansy as if she had never seen anyone so strange.

Their exchange hadn't escaped the notice of the pair at the counter, and Pansy found herself very flustered when Potter turned his 'Ooo-I-think-I'm-sexy' look on _her_. Only, it wasn't his 'Ooo-I-think-I'm-sexy' look. He was just looking at her, green eyes wide and quite clearly saying, "What's a place like you doing in a girl like this?" Which would be fine, you know, if they were in a seedy bar somewhere and she was tipsy and he was drunk and there was a possibility of them getting out of there and doing the horizontal hula in her bed.

But Potter didn't say that. He said, "Hey."

Shit.

Pansy told herself to act natural, but she couldn't quite remember how she naturally acted around Harry Potter. She certainly wasn't nice to him, but she didn't think it exactly fit to glare at him when he hadn't done anything wrong yet. Granted, it wasn't uncommon for her to tell him that the fact that he'd been born was enough to piss her off, but she was over that, right? Grown up and all that. To her horror, she ended up in this place half between a smile and a frown, something that probably made her look as if she was physical deformed. She cursed herself to the pits of hell. She raised her hand in greeting and said, "Hey."

Oh, she was so _smooth_.

Potter nodded at 'Hi, I'm Margaret!' the Autograph Girl, and Pansy counted it as a personal triumph against the Hogwarts Trollop that Potter had dismissed her to focus his attention solely on Pansy. He picked up his bag and headed towards her, and Pansy felt her heart do the _ba ba dum dum_ dance in her chest all over again. And suddenly she didn't even care that he'd been focusing his attention on Margaret, because she remembered what it felt like to have it completely on her and the havoc it wrought on her entire well-being, and goddamnit, she _hated_ Harry Potter.

"What are you doing here, Pansy?" he said.

Pansy found herself glaring at him a bit now, and this felt more natural to her than anything else had. She suddenly remembered why she was always so angry with Potter—beyond his obvious lack of a personality and his ability to piss her off with his mind-boggling simplicity. It was his knack for making her heart want to jump right out of her chest, and that totally would _not_ be a good thing, considering she needed that thing to live and it had no business beating on the floor at Potter's feet. Meh. Stupid man.

"Pansy?"

"Good grief, Potter," she said coolly, "give a girl a _break_. What do you think I'm doing here? The same thing you're doing—shopping."

The two of them looked down in her cart at the exact same time, and Pansy colored a bit when she realized that the orange monstrosity was gone and she hadn't picked anything else up and put in there to help with her cover. The only thing in the cart was an empty box of Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans. The second-hand robe shop sold many things, but clearly not _that_.

Potter looked at her expectantly. He'd caught her in a lie and they both knew it.

Pansy shrugged, hoping that she looked more nonchalant than she felt. He'd _caught_ her. Damnit.

The plan was to be cool, calm, and collected if anything like this happened, but she hadn't seen him in _three months_ and he was staring down at her like he cared about her life and the reason why she was lying to him about being in the second-hand robe shop, and she found herself latching her claws into her nonexistent cool, lest she begin to completely freak out right in front of his face.

She took a deep breath, and told herself to chill the_ eff _out before she completely blew it. Potter wasn't on to her yet, and she wanted to keep it that way. Acting like a ninny would not help the situation.

She picked up a jumper off a nearby rack, holding it in front of her just as she had the orange robe. "I'm shopping," she repeated.

"Pansy…"

"S-h-o-p-p-_i-n-g,_" she sing-songed. "Shopp_ing_." The jumper blocked Potter from her sight, and she scrunched up her face in horror that she was touching something so old and smelly.

"My father would _love_ this," she said. The only thing her father would love to do with the hideous thing was burn it. Repeatedly. It looked like one of Molly Weasley's early works. Pansy gagged. "It'll be a _just-because_ present, I think. _Just-because_ I love him."

Potter grabbed her wrist before she could continue, lowering the jumper so he could see her face. Pansy's heart began dancing the cha-cha in her chest, and she wondered if he could feel it against his fingers, if he knew what he did to her. When was the last time he'd touched her? Merlin, she couldn't remember_._ All she could think was that he was touching her _right now_ and nothing else mattered, because she was going to find a way to get time to stop so he'd be touching her forever.

"You cut your hair," he said, releasing her wrist. The spell was broken. There was no more stopping time. There was her and there was him and her heartbeat went back to something resembling normal, and Pansy was filled with a familiar overwhelming urge to beat Potter's head in for ruining a moment he probably hadn't even known was happening.

And _no shit_ she'd cut her hair. She'd gotten it done months ago. It'd been in the same cute little bob the last time she saw him, when he'd received his Order of Merlin, First Class. Only, he'd had Ginny Weasley on his side like a bad rash then, and probably hadn't been able to see beyond to blinding red thing on the chit's head, let alone Pansy's chic new style. They hadn't talked that day, and it slowly dawned on Pansy that just because she'd seen Potter, didn't necessarily mean that he'd seen her. There had been a lot of people at the ceremony, and the only reason Pansy had seen Potter beyond his time on stage had been because she'd actively sought him out. She was nearly positive that he hadn't extended her the same courtesy. After all, he hadn't noticed her hair.

Besides, it wasn't like they were friends. They were _something_, but it certainly wasn't friends. Neverfriends. She thought he was stupid and he thought she was a shrew. Their hatred was mutual. Only, Pansy hardly hated Potter, and Potter was too much a pile of mush to hate anyone.

Maybe they were friends. Kind of.

Ugh.

"You're late," Pansy said. "This haircut is _old_."

Potter shrugged. "I haven't seen you in awhile."

Pansy rolled her eyes. _This_ was what she meant about his birth being enough to irritate her. "Do you make a point of stating the obvious?" She'd be so much happier if simple men with the ability to irritate her to the extent that Potter could didn't exist.

He smiled, faintly. "I see that _you're_ still the charming girl I remember."

"Piss off, Potter," she said, turning back to the jumper. "I'm busy."

"Doing _what_?"

She stared at him. "You're stupid," she said finally.

Potter rolled his eyes. "Pansy, _please._ Grow up."

"As if you can talk, _Potty_."

Yeah, she was immature and goaded him purposely, but he was stupid and made her angry; they were even.

He looked at her, seriously. "What are you doing here, Pansy?"

"What does it look like I'm doing, Potter?" she said, holding up the jumper. "I'm _shopping_. I just _said_ I was shopping. What do I have to do to make you _believe_ that I'm shopping?" She was waving the jumper around frantically now, and she was sure everyone in the shop probably thought she was mad. And she was reminded of yet _another_ reason why she hated Harry Potter: he always made it appear as if _she_ was the insane one, when really he _made_ her that way. If he didn't breathe in her plane of existence, she'd be fine.

"Sweet Merlin," he exclaimed, covering his nose. "Get _rid_ of that thing."

Pansy blinked, a wicked grin quirking her lips as she raised the jumper again. "You mean this?" she said innocently, raising the sweater to his face. He took a step away from her and Pansy countered it with one of her own, essentially chasing him with the smelly jumper. She had an image in her mind of putting the jumper over his face and suffocating him with its noxious fumes, and the image took Pansy to her happy place. "Isn't it nice, Potter?" she asked, continued to chase him with it. "Doesn't it smell _good_?"

Potter must've realized how utterly ridiculous the scene was, for he snatched the jumper from her hands and slammed the hanger back on the rack. "Be serious," he said.

"I _am_," she replied. "Some of us can't afford the finer things in life. You should be considerate toward those who are less fortunate than yourself, Harry Potter."

He rolled his eyes. "You'll _never_ be less fortunate, Pansy."

She scoffed. "You won't be saying that when my father's company tanks. The company will go out of business and we'll be poor. And we'll have to rent a room in the Burrow because we can't afford anything else."

He paused for a moment. "Isn't that a little sensational?"

"Hardly." She looked down, her voice taking on a serious tone for the very first time. "You know how bad we're doing," she said quietly.

He looked contrite. "Yeah."

While she may have been embellishing the truth with the bit about the Weasleys, the whole of Britain knew that her family's shipping business was going down, and there was nothing short of a miracle that could be done to stop it. Her father had given nearly all of the company's resources to the Ministry to fund the war against the Dark Lord. While many companies had lost a lot of money funding the war, those businesses were now rebuilding and regaining the revenue they'd lost. Her family's company could not, seeing as no one would do business with Pansy's father except Malfoy International.

Wizarding Britain looked down on her and her family as Death Eater scum, regardless of what her father had done. Though her father's defection from the Dark Lord had been a secret for a long time, the Minister of Magic himself had announced Reginald Parkinson's innocence in a press conference, hoping to dispel the public cries that the whole family be thrown in Azkaban. On this note, it seemed, the public was more willing to believe whatever it wanted to believe, and Pansy's entire family was whispered about and scorned. No one took her father's actions for what they were—a fundamental change in the values he'd possessed for the majority of his life—and many thought that he should be locked up with the rest of the Death Eaters who'd been rounded up after the war. Since he wasn't, they'd implemented their own form of justice upon the family. Her father couldn't get any business, Pansy didn't receive the Order of Merlin; certain shops in Diagon Alley—namely Florean Fortescue's, Madam Malkin's, and a host of small shops and cafés—even refused her service, telling her that the didn't serve her kind.

And even though Draco's kindness managed to keep her father's company out of the red for the past few months, Malfoy International wasn't doing so hot, either. Draco Malfoy was a businessman, and as such, they both knew that he couldn't afford to make less than lucrative deals with them lest Malfoy International go under as well.

But such was the fate of the blacklisted. Pansy's father was thinking about relocating to India and setting up shop there, where no one knew who they were and they would have an equal opportunity to succeed. Pansy, however, refused to leave. England was her home, and she'd live there until she died. She wasn't going to let anything—not Voldemort, prejudice, or ignorance—push her out of her home.

It was humbling for her, to be on the other side of the ridicule and the scorn. This was the way she'd treated people, how she'd constantly pushed people down until they couldn't get back up so that they knew, without question, that they were beneath her.

She remembered Granger's words one night so many months ago, while they were forced together because of Lucius' kooky scheme.

"No good will ever come of your behavior," she'd said. "You're rude and you're nasty and you have no concern for anyone else but yourself. But just as easily as you pushed people down, they'll be able to push you down as well. All it takes is a change in the winds and just like that, you're on the ground."

And hell, she was right. But Hermione Granger was always right, so there was no surprise there.

That was neither here nor there, however, because the war was over and she was alive and even though life royally _sucked_ when everyone was being an arse to you, Pansy had better things to worry about than the stupidity of the general population. Namely, how to shake off Harry Potter without arising suspicion, and surreptitiously begin following him again so she could figure out what it was that he was doing.

He was looking at her with a repentant expression, and Pansy could practically see the wheels turning behind his eyes, his brain concocting some kind of apology to make amends for his indiscretion. "Pansy—"

"Oh, Harry Potter, don't even _bother_." He looked puzzled, and Pansy grinned. "Don't worry, I won't attack you with a smelly jumper again."

He nodded slowly.

"What are _you_ doing here, Potter?" she asked.

He looked taken aback for a moment, then opened his shopping bag to show her its contents.

The irregular underwear was on top and Pansy arched a dark eyebrow in question. "Having problems with the undies you've got at home?"

Potter opened his mouth to protest, but stopped himself. "I suppose I am," he said neutrally. "But I happened to have some free time today, and decided to take care of it."

"Ah, by going against the Gryffindor norm and buying man-pants this time around?"

He rolled his eyes. "What happened to the growing up thing you were supposed to be doing, Parkinson?"

"Apparently _you're_ doing the growing up, Potter. You're buying big boy underwear."

"You're impossible."

"You bought irregular underwear."

"We all can't be perfect," he said.

"_I_ am."

He looked at her and nodded. "You are."

Common sense told her that he was teasing, but he was giving her his 'Ooo-I-think-I'm-sexy' look again—which was less of an 'Ooo-I-think-I'm-sexy' look and more of just a _look_—and smiling just a bit and she kind of thought he meant it.

"Which is why I prefer women to be very, very flawed."

Pansy glared at him. Dirty wanker.

"It's hardly _my_ fault you can't handle someone who's simply _right_ in every respect."

"I never said it was."

He was smiling faintly now, glad to finally be off the _bottom_. And even though he was teasing her, Pansy couldn't find it in her to truly be upset. It'd been too long since she'd seen him look like that.

Potter looked at the clock above the register, the back at her. "What are you doing now?"

Pansy blinked. "I'm shopping," she answered. "I've said it ten times, Potter, I'm—"

"Good," he said, cutting her off, "you're free."

"Are you daft, Potter? I'm shopping. I just _said_ I was shopping, I said _before_ that I'm shopping—"

"Pansy—"

"_Stop_ cutting me off, damnit. _Stop_ asking me the same—"

"Have lunch with me?"

Pansy stopped, her heart skidding to a halt just as her words had. "What?"

Harry smiled lazily. "Lunch?"

She stared at him blankly, something in her brain flashing bright red warning signs behind her eyes. She was about to have a major meltdown. Harry Potter had just asked her out to lunch,and if that wasn't meltdown material enough, she was wearing _trousers. _Not to mention that her top was a _complete_ disaster as well; you could barely tell she had breasts in the thing, let alone that they were _good_ breasts and certainly worth Potter looking at if it was going to entice him into deciding she was the best thing since sliced bread.

He'd asked her out to lunch_._ Pansy could _die._

"Look," he said, "I know I'm famous, and you're probably in shock from—"

Pansy shook her head, snapping out of her distraction. "Your bravado is a nightmare," she told him.

"Yeah, well, you suck at Charms."

"_You_ suck at Charms, Potter," she said. "I received an 'O' in Charms on my OWLs _and_ my NEWTs." She retrieved her handbag from the shopping cart and started for the door.

"Is that why you're so _charming_?"

Pansy laughed. "Your attempt at humor is even scarier."

Potter shrugged. "You're laughing, aren't you?"

Pansy turned to face him. "I'll tell you one thing Potter: I'll charm _you_ right out of your problematic little knickers if you aren't careful. I'll hang them from my window as proof of my conquest."

Potter looked aghast, and Pansy couldn't tell if he was joking. "You're hardly a girl, Pansy Parkinson," he said. "You have the sense of humor of a twelve-year-old schoolboy."

"Maybe," she said cryptically. She smiled. "Where are you taking me to lunch?"

- - - - - - - -


	2. Part 2

Title: Stalking Harry Potter 2/4

Author's Name: Empath Apathique

Author's Note: I'd like to make a special than you to everyone who reviewed this story and took the effort to place it on their story alert list--it's nice to see that some people are as interested in Harry/Pansy as moi. Here is the second chapter of SHP, however I must warn that the third chapter will not be out until sometime next week at the earliest. While it is already written, I'm taking the time to uncode it and edit it, and chapter 3, I'm sad to say, needs a lot of work. In my opinion, at least. This story is also archieved on the pphpficexchange community on LJ. It was written for the first Harry/Pansy exchange, and if anyone gets impatient for an update, you can always go there to find the story. It is award winning as well. It picked up two awards in the exchange, which I am very proud out.

Anyway, onto part 2.

- - - - - - - -

Harry Potter had a way with women.

It was very odd, considering he'd only had one girlfriend his entire life, and he couldn't have possibly had enough experience with Ginny Weasley to make him as smooth as he was. But Potter _was_ smooth. He'd been the perfect gentleman, opening every door and carrying out behaviors she'd previously thought would be eternally beyond his notice. He handled her expertly, appeasing her feminine sensibilities and effortlessly redirecting less desirable responses, such as anger. Eyes had followed the pair as soon as they'd left the second-hand robe shop together, whispering as they watched them, unabashed. A sweaty film had clinged to Pansy's palms at the attention; her throat had dried up and she'd felt so anxious, helpless, that she hadn't been able to stop her angry reaction. But Harry Potter had demonstrated his unbelievable way with her then yet again, had managed to calm her rising ire with a hand on her wrist and a cool expression as he'd said, "whoa, hunny bunny, let's chill out."

He hadn't actually said that to her—he wasn't _that_ bloody smooth—but Pansy fancied that his eyes had. And Potter's eyes spoke to her, man. They spoke so much they _sang_. He'd completely cooled her meltdown, and if Potter wasn't considered a smooth operator for that, then hell, no one should be.

Of course, even though Potter had technically only had one girlfriend, according to Granger, he'd gotten warm and fuzzy with Cho Chang during fifth year, and Pansy figured that the experience with the Ravenclaw girl had given him _some_ added insight into the female psyche. She'd been an older woman, after all. But then there was Potter's relationship with _her_, which was far more mature and romantic that whatever he'd shared with Cho the Ho. Pansy had gotten two kisses; Cho had only gotten one.

Also, this thing Potter had with Pansy was serious—so serious that he'd pursued it even though he was still in a relationship with Ginny Weasley. Or hadn't pursued it; it was more like he'd been walking down the road and had been bombarded by tomatoes repeatedly. He hadn't gone looking for tomatoes, but he was getting them—in the face.

But Pansy reckoned that Potter liked tomatoes, as he'd continued along the same route regardless of the number of tomatoes making his face home base. Interacting with Pansy had taught the man a lot, too. Potter was a completely different man now than he'd been when Pansy had first started dealing with him more than a year ago, and given that Potter and Apple Head had been together for a few years by then, Potter had changed all he would for the girl. Any changes that had come about in the last year had been because of Pansy, and she'd hex anyone who said different.

But that was all said and done now, wasn't it? Because she was over Potter and Potter was still stuck on Ginny Weasley and no matter how much Pansy hated that Potter couldn't see that Girl Weasley was absolutely _wrong_ for him, she wouldn't go there. Because whatever she and Potter had was through.

She was only having lunch with him. She ignored the fact that the thought alone had the ability to make her swoon.

Currently, the two were standing inside the entryway of small café that had "Thelma & Melvin's" emblazoned on the bright red awning. It was less crowded than the other establishments on the street, and though it was small, it had a sunny, homey feel to it that Pansy supposed made up for its lack of space. She was hit with a pang of memory as she looked around the café, though she couldn't quite place when she'd been here before, and figured she was probably confusing the place with an eatery she frequented a few streets over. The two were fairly similar.

Thelma & Melvin's only had a handful of tables, each topped with the typical essentials for a low-key meal. There were only a few patrons seated for lunch, spread out and working as they ate. Pansy got the impression that Thelma & Melvin's was the kind of place you only went to if you actually _knew_ Thelma and Melvin. Everyone there appeared to be regulars, which definitely said something about Potter's connection to the place.

A cheery blonde—and busty—waitress greeted the duo as soon as the door closed. Her expression brightened to astronomical proportions when she saw the messy-haired man at Pansy's side.

"Mr. Potter!" she squealed. "What a pleasant surprise!"

Pansy resisted the urge to make a gagging noise. Another Potter fangirl. Joy.

Potter smiled at the girl, and Pansy thought she saw a bit of the 'Ooo, I Think I'm Sexy' look on his face. She scowled.

"How are you, Ruby?" he greeted cordially. The girl practically went _squee_, and Pansy made a note to tell Potter to stop dazzling his groupies when she was with him, because it made her want to retch.

"I've been just fine, Mr. Potter," she answered, beaming. "Have you been well? You haven't stopped by in so long—we thought you may have taken ill."

He shook his head. "Just busy, is all. I've hardly seen much of anyone, lately." He looked at Pansy and smiled. "How long has it been, Pansy? Three months?"

Pansy nodded, a little taken aback at being addressed. Then she scowled, a little peeved at Potter for bringing her into a conversation in which he was so openly being fangirled.

However, the remark had caused Ruby the Boobalicious Waitress to notice her, and Pansy watched as the initial cheeriness left her face. "Pardon me," she said in a more professional tone, looking back at Potter. "I don't mean to hold you up, sir. Would you like your usual seat for you and your…" She glanced at Pansy again, and the dark-haired woman fought the urge to give Boobie Ruby a dirty gesture. "…companion?"

Potter nodded and smiled. If he was aware of what was going on between the two women, he didn't let on.

"Right this way, then." Boobie Ruby grabbed two menus from her station and then led the pair through the nearly empty restaurant to a table in the farthest corner of the place, facing the open window.

Pansy sent Potter a look when he pulled out her chair. His manners made the girl inside of her practically die with elation. Merlin, this man was so bloody _smooth_. She wondered where he'd learned his good manners, thinking it certainly couldn't have been at home, or whatever Potter preferred to called his cupboard under the stairs at Privet Drive. If his Muggle relatives hadn't shown him where to buy his underwear, then they certainly wouldn't have taken the time to teach him how to treat a lady. It had probably been Granger's influence, she thought, and she smiled at him as she sat. And yeah, his manners made her happy, but the smile was more for Boobie Ruby's displeasure. The blonde looked as if she'd just taken a long, hard suck on a lemon.

"Your menus," she said, tersely handing she and Potter the large laminated booklets after the man had taken his seat. "I'll be with you shortly."

"Thank you, Ruby," Potter said.

She gave him a very tight smile, then left.

Pansy grinned. "Oh, she's a little ray of sunshine, isn't she?"

Potter sighed, and Pansy knew right then that he'd been completely aware of she and Boobie Ruby's little tiff. "Ruby's a nice girl," he said. "You shouldn't rile her up like that."

"She riled herself up," Pansy replied. "She's probably had her sights set on you for awhile. It won't do if you're bringing another woman here."

"She's a nice girl," he repeated.

"Of course she is. I saw the set she had on her. What does Granger call them…?" She looked thoughtful for a moment, then snapped her fingers and proclaimed, "Hindenburgs!" as if it were the answer to world peace.

Potter looked at her in disbelief. "Hermione does _not_ call them that."

Pansy scowled, leveling the man with a glare. "Have you ever talked to Granger about breasts?"

"No, but—"

"Well, then, how would _you_ know what Granger calls them?"

For the first time that day, he faltered. "You're lying," he said after a moment.

"I don't need to." She picked up her menu and opened it, ending the conversation. She pretended to peruse the thing, surreptitiously glancing at him from over it. He looked irritated, but he had picked up his menu as well. Score one for the home team. Pansy smiled and began to read the menu in earnest.

It seemed Thelma & Melvin's had a lot to offer, and considering she hadn't eaten breakfast, many of the items on the menu sounded appealing. With the way her stomach felt, she could probably eat a whole rack of lamb by herself. She could eat like a monster when she skipped a meal. She glanced up from the menu and at her lunch date, who was studying his own menu in turn. She frowned. She couldn't actually _eat_ now. She was having lunch with Harry Potter, and she'd die before he saw her indulge her fat girl tendencies.

She'd have a cranberry spinach salad with unsweetened iced tea and aw hell, her stomach began to gurgle painfully in protest. Her stomach wanted lamb and a jacket potato and sparkling lemonade sweetened with two sugars and maybe—_maybe_—a salad on the side. She was reminded of her previous resolution to put Potter out of her mind, but told herself that she didn't even believe the whole 'I don't like Potter, no I do not' thing when she was alone. How on earth was she supposed to convince herself of it now that she was sitting right across from him, and had just been reminded of how utterly _smooth_ he was?

She looked at the spinach salad again. But she was _hungry_!

Bugger it all, Potter was supposed to be a real kind of guy anyway. And if he was real kind of guy, he certainly wouldn't mind a real kind of girl, who ate real food, right?

She closed her menu; she'd have the lamb and the potato and the salad. And the lemonade. Maybe some dessert. She looked across the table at her companion, her stomach growling in anticipation.

"Made up your mind?" he asked, not bothering to look up from his menu.

Pansy nodded. "I'm not as remarkably indecisive as you are, Potter."

"What do _you_ know of my indecisiveness, Parkinson?"

"I saw you in the second-hand robe store today," she said offhandedly, looking down at her nails. She was due for a manicure soon. "You couldn't make a decision if it slapped you in the face."

He looked up at her then, a crooked grin on his lips. "You were watching me?"

His smile caused her heart to skip a beat, and she looked down at her menu, blushing. Then she realized her slipup, and called herself seven kinds of stupid for having such loose lips. What kind of stalker was she, anyway?

An incredibly bad one, apparently.

In Pansy's defense, she didn't normally do things like this. Not to say that she'd never stalked anyone before, because she had—and frequently—while she was at Hogwarts. Draco had always been a slippery lot, and back then, Pansy had made it her business to monitor her man and who he was seeing, lest he fall in with some unsavory girl and she fancy herself with an infatuation. Draco Malfoy had been _hers_, and back then, she'd have borrowed, cheated, and killed to make sure everyone knew it.

But even though she could've taught Stalking 101 at Hogwarts, Pansy liked to think that she'd grown up quite a bit from the silliness that had possessed her in her teenage years. She had been locked up in Malfoy Manor for far too long, and she refused to waste any more of her life not doing exactly what she wanted to do. Time, especially _hers_, was precious,. It wasn't like she had to stalk Draco Malfoy anymore, anyway. The wanker had finally learned to keep the cat in the bag, so to speak. Besides, he was Hermione Granger's problem now.

Her situation with Potter was nothing like the one she'd been in with Draco in the past; however, she at least wished she still had some of her Super Stalker Skills to aid her now. Constantly telling on herself was pathetic.

Pansy fought the urge to sigh.

"I wasn't _watching_ you," she corrected, trying very hard to keep her voice neutral as she attempted to salvage the situation. "I just happened to see you while I was shopping."

"And you watched me."

"No, I _saw_ you—"

"And watched me." He turned back to his menu, effectively dismissing her as she'd done to him before.

"Don't say it like that," she whined. "It sounds bad when you say it like that."

"It's the same thing," he said.

"No, it's not. To say it like that makes it seem as if I were stalking you or something."

He raised his brows in question.

"Oh, as _if._"

He chuckled. "It was a joke, Pansy."

"It wasn't funny." She _humphed_ for good measure.

"Why would _you_ think so?" he said, looking at her. "It was about you."

He sounded very pleased with himself, and Pansy felt her insides squirm and turn in on themselves. She glared at him. "Merlin, has anyone told you what a complete and utter _arse _you are?"

"Sorry, not since I saw Draco yesterday."

He continued going through his menu, and Pansy huffed aloud, utterly annoyed at having her own trick being thrown back in her face. "Well, let me reiterate: Potter, you are an arse. An arse_hole_."

"That's nice," he said dismissively.

She was struck with the urge to hurl the saltshaker at his head. "You make me sick."

"You shouldn't tell lies at the dinner table, Pansy."

"This isn't my dinner table, Potter, and I don't follow those silly Muggle phrases you seem to fancy, anyway."

He looked back down at his menu and didn't respond.

There was silence for a few moments, and Pansy began to look around the small café once again. She suddenly remembered why it was familiar now: she'd come here a week or so ago, after her interview at the _Daily Prophet_. She'd been tired and kind of pissy, because she was pretty sure she'd completely blown the thing, and all she'd really wanted was a cuppa and a few biscuits before she buried herself in her bed and stayed there for a week.

The owner, however, had refused Pansy service, giving the now familiar excuse of her establishment not serving the likes of her. She should've just turned around and left, but she'd been tired and out of it and had just wanted a cup of tea. And she was tired of it, the whole leaving restaurants constantly and having to find somewhere else to go because someone there thought she wasn't good enough to be in their presence. Her money was just as good as anyone else's, and if she wanted a cup of tea and could pay for a cup of tea she should very well get her cup of tea. Pansy had told the portly woman—Thelma, dear, evil, _fat_ Thelma—so, and had received a very colorful response. She'd told Pansy that she didn't rightly care _where_ she got her tea, but she wasn't getting it from _her_ shop, and that, as far as she was concerned, Pansy's money _wasn't _just as good as anyone else's, and she'd have to take it to someone who thought it was. She'd told her to get out of her shop before she notified the authorities.

Pansy had been so angry that she'd hardly been able to see straight, and she'd left the café and Apparated home straight away, not in the state of mind to put herself through more abuse at the hands of prejudiced shop owners for a cup of tea. She'd put on the kettle to make her own damn tea, and she'd been so angry that she'd started to cry. She'd spent the following hour on the kitchen floor crying her eyes out, and repeating over and over that she only wanted _tea_—just a cup of tea.

It hadn't been Pansy's finest hour, but she found it completely ironic that Potter had taken her here of all places, when dear Thelma had made it so blatantly obvious that she'd never serve Pansy Parkinson in her café. Potter didn't know that, but still. He was a regular here though; he saw absolutely nothing wrong with bringing her there. Heck, he probably brought Ginny Weasley there, too.

The thought left a decidedly bad taste in Pansy's mouth. Thelma probably _loved_ Ginny Weasley, and Pansy hated how everyone liked her just because she was making it with Harry Potter. They didn't know a thing about the woman, and Pansy liked to tell herself that Ginny Weasley was probably a right bitch, and that no one should like her at all. It made her feel better. Sometimes.

But this place… Pansy looked around again. There was a decidedly lonely feel to the café; it wasn't the kind of place young couples went for a date. Wouldn't Potter be more inclined to take Ginny Weasley somewhere brighter, more commercial? Something to appeal to her giggling girl sensibilities?

Of course he would. Potter would do anything in his power to make sure Ginny Weasley was absolutely happy, because that was the kind of guy he was. Doting and all that, but Pansy likened it to Potter being pretty damn whipped. In a few years, when he and his precious little redhead were settled down and happy, he'd probably take care of the laundry and the cooking as well.

"How are things with the future Mrs. Potter?" she asked suddenly. She called herself seven kinds of stupid for asking such a loaded question, but told herself that she was a big girl, and could handle whatever answer Potter would give. It was a lie, of course, but Pansy was used to lying to herself when it came to Harry Potter. It was nothing new.

Potter looked up at her quickly then back down at his menu. His cheeks were pink, and he looked thoroughly uncomfortable. "Complicated," he said quietly. "Very, very complicated."

Pansy grinned. "How complicated?" she asked. She sounded far too happy with this news, and she told herself that she needed to cool it, lest he ask her why she was so happy he was breaking up with his long-term girlfriend. Which would open up a completely different can of worms, and while Pansy was of the mind that there were things between she and Potter that hadn't been said and certainly needed to be, she'd like to have a meal first. As she'd said, she hadn't eaten breakfast. She couldn't very well yell at the man on an empty stomach. "Potter?"

"Complicated enough," he replied vaguely.

Pansy rolled her eyes. "You'll have to be more specific than _that_. Things are always complicated."

He looked at her then, and Pansy couldn't identify the look in his eyes. "I suppose they are."

She rolled her eyes again. She wouldn't be getting anywhere with the man on this topic, and she resolved to push all thoughts of a domesticated Potter out of her mind. He didn't seem like the type to know his way around a kitchen anyway; his future bride would certainly be doing the cooking in the Potter household.

Pansy frowned, wondering where exactly the Potter household _was_ now. Voldemort had burned Grimmauld Place to the ground after Mundungus Fletcher had betrayed its location, though Potter had only resided there when planning attacks and doing work for the Order. Officially, he'd been employed at the Ministry of Magic as an Auror, and while both the Ministry and the Order had had the same goals during the way, it had been well known that the two groups had their own way of going about things.

During the war, Potter had left strategy meetings at work only to return to them at home. Everyone and their Aunt Sue had been residing in Grimmauld Place back then, and because Potter was loony and there was too much stuff in that broken head of his for him to deal with so many people at one time, _he_ had moved out. Pansy had thought that was funny, considering it was his house and he could've rightly told everyone else to _piss off_. But Potter was Potter, and he was too nice to do anything like that to people he liked. He had gotten a flat in the heart of London not long after the war began.

Only, Potter had neglected to renew his lease on the place a few weeks ago, and a new family was currently moving in. And no, she hadn't been stalking him when she'd found out about this. Potter had stopped by her home while she was out, and Pansy had gone to his flat to repay this visit, her shortest skirt snug on her hips, only to find a young Muggle family moving in. And if Grimmauld Place was gone and he no longer owned his flat, then Harry Potter was homeless.

And that made absolutely no sense at all. He'd saved the entire bloody country; he couldn't be homeless. Pansy had asked around, but no one knew where Potter was living now. Her current purpose in life was to discover exactly where that was, hence the stalking. And she knew she should really just mind her business, as where Harry Potter lived had nothing to do with Pansy at all, but Pansy liked to tell herself that Potter had brought her into this situation when he'd visited her. He'd had a perfectly good cover for being there, of course—official Auror business and all that—but his excuse was _shit_. Because no Auror hand delivered a summons to appear before the Wizengamot personally. There were owls for that.

But, two weeks ago to the day, Potter had left his cluttered little desk at the Ministry and gone all the way to her family's summer home in Brighton to do so. And beyond wondering how on earth he knew where she was staying—he was _so_ keeping tabs on her—Pansy had known without a doubt that his visit had nothing to do with the summons he'd dropped off. Her family's home in Brighton was connected directly to that of her neighbors, and Pansy had gone outside to ask the woman who lived to her right if she'd seen her visitor that afternoon. Mrs. Claiborne was a old witch who spent nearly all of her days sitting on her front porch, and Pansy had been sure that, if anyone had seen Potter, it would've been her.

She'd been right. "Dearest," Mrs. Claiborne had said, "the boy sat by your door and waited a whole hour for your return."

Pansy's heart had stopped.

"He came around three days last week as well."

And _that_ was why she was stalking him. More than simply trying to discover where the dirty wanker lived, he'd gone to see her. No man would visit her four separate times if he didn't want something specific from her, and Pansy was set on figuring out what. She'd been digging around for the past two weeks, however she was still as clueless as she'd been before. Granger hadn't been any help, but the woman was far too busy frolicking through the countryside with hubby-to-be Draco to keep tabs on her errant friend. All she'd known was that Potter had planned to be in Diagon Alley on Tuesday—today—for an afternoon meeting. It was how Pansy had known where Potter would be to follow him. And even though she was currently sitting across from him and could very well _ask_ him where he was living, there was a distance between them that she didn't quite know how to breach.

In a sense, Pansy longed for the days that she'd been held in captivity. Back then, all she'd needed to do was ask her question in their weekly letter and he'd tell her, his honesty a given. There was no room to lie to each other while planning her and Granger's escape, and that honesty had miraculously been extended to things that _weren't_ related to the plan. Even now, Pansy couldn't quite say why they had begun to talk about things on a personal level, but they had. It was how Pansy had learned that Potter had a flat in London to begin with.

She could've asked him in person as well, as he'd made a habit of visiting every few weeks, his animagus owl form swooping right through the window, to drop off books and other small objects they needed to disable to wards. Potter had studied hard to become an animagus, and he started visiting five months after their correspondence began, about a year since she'd been imprisoned in the manor. When they hadn't been arguing about nothing or planning the escape, they'd talked, the same honesty present in their letters extending to their direct encounters.

Lucius' wards had only prohibited Pansy from _leaving_ the manor, so anyone could get in, especially owls delivering letters; or, in Potter's case, items that would help she and Granger escape.

He'd been able to take her bracelet one night and return it the very next day, a brand spanking new portkey. Pansy had been hard-pressed to let Potter take something of so much personal value to her. But he'd been insistent that the portkey be something she kept with her at all times; they couldn't take the chance of it being lost or misplaced. Pansy had finally relented and, for three months prior to their escape, had walked around with a portkey just waiting to be activated fastened to her wrist.

Lucius Malfoy was so _stupid_.

Only, Lucius hadn't been nearly as stupid as Pansy and Granger had wished he was. The wards he had placed on the wing of the manor where the two women lived had taken Granger nearly a year to figure out how to disable. And regardless of all they'd planned and figured out and had gotten away with, Lucius had suspected that the two of them had been plotting something for months, and had been ready when she and Granger had made their move to disable the wards. They'd nearly died. The bracelet had saved their lives.

Pansy looked down at her wrist, looking for the missing bracelet once again. There was that familiar sinking sensation, but she studiously ignored it, looking at her lunch date instead.

"You surprise me, Potter," she said, flipping over the menu and looking at the alcohol selection. As nostalgic as she was this afternoon, she'd be needing a stiff drink very, very soon.

"How so?"

"I imagined you'd take me to The Leaky Cauldron."

He shrugged, still studying his menu. "I didn't want to leave Diagon Alley."

Her brows raised in question. "Why not?" she asked. The awkwardness was just beginning to alleviate, but Pansy wasn't going to allow the opportunity to discover exactly what she wanted to know pass her by. She wasn't that silly. After all, she had the guise of friendly curiosity on her side. He wouldn't suspect she was stalking him at all.

"I have an appointment at three. Don't want to be late."

"It's hardly a trek from The Leaky Cauldron to Diagon Alley, Potter."

"Why don't you let me worry about what is or isn't a trek for me," he said, "while you worry about what you're ordering?"

Pansy _hmphed_, crossing her arms over her chest as she said, "Well, you're being rather rude."

"The Cornish pasty here is rather good," he told her.

"I already know what I'm ordering," she said huffily.

Potter shrugged. "Suit yourself."

The pair settled into silence again. Pansy found herself reaching for the missing bracelet again, and she wondered why she was so preoccupied with it today. But she was sitting across from Potter, and he'd broken it, and she supposed that explained it all.

She hadn't found out about its destruction until a few weeks after the war, during Potter's last visit to her room while she was in St. Mungo's. Lucius hadn't taken well to her and Granger disproving the whole 'Malfoy Manor is inescapable thing', and had blown a hole in her chest as a result. And no, she wasn't exaggerating. Lucius' attack had broken her sternum, cracked three ribs and punctured both of her lungs with one blow. It had been meant to kill her, and it had been by the grace of God and Hermione Granger that she'd survived. She'd woken up days later in St. Mungo's, her father standing over with a teary expression and a dreadful ache between her breasts. She'd have the scar to remind her of the ordeal for the rest of her life.

Potter had only visited her a few times that she could remember, though her father had told her that he'd sat by her bed quite often when she'd first been brought in. The thought made her smile even now. His visits had become less frequent as Pansy had become more conscious of her surroundings. Things had quickly become awkward between the two of them, neither truly knowing what to say with Pansy's father hovering just beyond the door and asking awkward questions when Potter left.

Boy Wonder had stuck around long enough to tell her that the war was over. He and most of the Order had stormed Malfoy Manor directly after her escape. However, Voldemort hadn't been too happy to discover that the home of his number one groupie was being destroyed, and he'd shown up at the scene as well, which had ultimately led to the final battle breaking out right then and there in the Malfoys' front parlor. Narcissa, had the dear woman still been alive, would've died from the sheer outrage of it all.

Potter had used her bracelet to gain access to the manor. In the final battle with Voldemort, it had been crushed, and the one thing that had unfailingly reminded her of her mother was lost forever.

It was another thing to blame him for—on top of all the other shit she shoved on him—and despite the bracelet's sentimental value, Pansy wasn't nearly as angry with Potter about its destruction as she thought she should have been. In reality, she wasn't angry with him at all, just sad. So sad she couldn't spare the energy to be angry.

"Do you like tomato and mozzarella?"

Pansy blinked, looking up in Potter's eyes as her previous thoughts began to fade. "Pardon?"

"Tomato and mozzarella salad. Do you like it?"

"I don't know," she said quietly, her mind still in a haze from her recollections. "Should I?"

Potter nodded. "You should." He smiled at her. "Wanna split one with me?"

Red blossomed on Pansy's cheeks, and she looked down at the table, mumbling, "sure" in response.

Potter grinned and Pansy scowled at him, because he _so_ knew what he did to her and he took pleasure it reducing her into a babbling bundle of girl. He was probably trying to make her into one of his groupies or something. Then he could have her throwing herself at his feet and begging for his kisses when he took time off from snogging Ginny Weasley.

And Potter could just forget about that, because Pansy Parkinson was nobody's other girl, and she'd absolutely _die_ before she was second to a redhead disaster like Ginevra Weasley.

She glared at his profile as he waved his hand in the air and gestured for Boobie Ruby. She felt that familiar anger creep up in her again. She'd been so busy being dazzled by his smoothness that she hadn't been able to think straight, let alone remember why it was such a bad thing to be dazzled by him. Harry Potter was a smarmy bastard and she'd do well to never forget it, lest she get her heart trampled on all over again by the non-feeling pillock. And now she completely remembered why she was done with Harry Potter.

Pansy would be the first to admit that something had transpired between her and the worthless man during the war. They'd argued and fought—and Merlin knew that they'd nearly driven each other to commit murder on multiple occasions—however, Pansy likened their explosive tendencies to the unnatural amount of sexual tension between the two of them. Because she was hot and _holy hell,_ he was hot, and hot people kind of just gravitated to each other. And to a bed.

Much against her will, Pansy had started to like him. She hadn't wanted to admit it—sweet Circe, she'd fought the infatuation tooth in nail—but it was hard not to like the only man who'd ever really given a damn about you and your life and who you were beyond all the rubbish people attached to your name. To most of the world, Pansy Parkinson stood for nothing but a shameless Slytherin slag who was doing Draco and half of Voldemort's army. Of course, it wasn't true, but people were always willing to put their faith in what was easiest to believe. Merlin knew it was easier to believe that Pansy was all of those horrid things, because if she wasn't, the general public would have to rewrite their opinions about _everybody_, and no one would see in black and white as they had before.

Everyone believed those things about her. Even Potter had, once upon a time when their relationship had existed through angry retorts penned in the secret letters they'd sent back and forth during the war. He was Harry Potter, and apparently the air up there on the pedestal the whole bloody world placed him on had gotten to him, because he'd been the most self-righteous, judgmental tosser Pansy had ever met in all her life. No one called him on it, because a war had been going on and Potter had been stressed, and Hagrid would have shaved his legs and donned a purple tutu if anyone had actually told Potter that he was a right bastard and didn't know _shit_.

Because he didn't. Potter didn't know _shit._ Not about people. Sure, he could plan strategies to hunt down Death Eaters and vanquish big bad dark lords. But Potter had nothing but dust in his head when it came to figuring out who a person was and how they'd gotten that way, and he'd let the opinions of other people fill his head as a result.

Everyone was judgmental, but Potter thought he was simply stating facts when he told you _exactly how you were_ without knowing you one bit. True, people often had an uncanny ability to be able to hit the nail right on the first time they met you, simply because they _didn't_ know you and only called it as they saw it, which was usually how it was. But the fact remained that they didn't _know you_, and all those 'truths' they spouted described nothing you on the surface, colored by the preexisting opinions they'd already brought into the situation.

Potter had already had his mind made up about the kind of person Pansy Parkinson was before he had even truly met her, and even though he'd been in close quarters with Blaise and Draco, there was no changing his mind. And she _was_ loud and whiney and _didn't have a clue_, but Potter hadn't had an open mind when it came to her at all. Pansy had given the man a piece—or two—of her mind because of it.

But they'd moved beyond that. Potter had seen the big bright error of his ways, and Pansy had grown up. And Potter had _liked_ her, because Pansy wouldn't take his shit or treat him like a glass fucking doll that would break if anyone stared too bloody long. Pansy was nothing like the simpering trollop he had at home. Though, now that Pansy thought about it, Potter hadn't even had her at home with him; Girl Weasley had spent the war sleeping in her own cold bed at Grimmauld Place while Potter luxuriated on the silk sheets Pansy had sent to his flat in Hyde Park. The sheets had been a joke about Potter's lack of taste, but he had _used_ them. He'd told her that he had, and Pansy had believed him, because she liked him and she trusted him and she believed almost every word that left the man's pretty pink lips. And Pansy was different, and bad, and he wasn't even supposed to_ go there_ with her but he had and he'd liked it and _he'd liked her_.

And it was bad, man. Because Potter had this thing with touching her skin, and it could be for something completely ordinary like moving her hand out of the way when they were looking at a map, or his fingers brushing hers when their hands got too close, and it'd been like magic. She would swear even now that she'd felt the magic in his blood leap out of his skin and dance with hers whenever his skin touched hers. And she'd known he'd felt it, because afterwards his hands would shake. And he'd run his fingers through his hair to hide it but there was _no_ hiding it, because she had beenthere and she had felt it and she hadn't let him run away. And it was so incredibly _fucked_ to think about it now that she was sitting across from him, watching him smile at the waitress who probably wanted him more than she'd ever wanted anything in her life. Because she'd tasted his lips, felt the heat of his hands on her skin as she'd delighted in the way the magic they created made their blood buzz in their veins and filled their very cores with the most forbidden heat. The heat would build and build until it exploded with spectacular sensuous abandon, leaving them in awe of the beauty they could make and in want of exploring the phenomena further.

And they hadn't had sex. That's how Pansy had known it was something; kisses weren't supposed to feel that way. Besides, if she could feel that way from simply snogging the man, the sex was bound to make her explode.

They certainly hadn't meant for it to happen. Pansy had liked Potter but had felt even then that Potter was too much of a mess for her to get involved with him, what with his long-term girlfriend and suffocating hero status. She wasn't the kind of girl for Harry Potter, and he wasn't the kind of man for her, and she'd known that they both would prefer to avoid the drama of a messy entanglement. Potter would have to end his other entanglement anyway, which would be a disaster, because what man in his right mind would leave Ginny Weasley for Pansy Parkinson? For shame! It wouldn't be done. But she hadn't been able to stop herself from telling him that there was something there, and that she couldn't ignore it. She'd told herself that it was just a kiss and nothing would come of it, but it'd happened again. She'd wanted to stop it then—nip the infatuation in the bud and be done with it forever. However, Potter hadn't been quite so willing to let go. He'd told her to pretend that things weren't so bad, that there was just him and her and them, and it was okay—even if only for an hour at a time. Pansy had devoured his words as if she'd needed them to survive, and when they'd progressed to laying in her bed and holding each other for as long as they possibly could, Pansy had known that they were done, that there was nothing she could do because it had happened and it was going to be messy.

The few moments she'd had with him after the war in St. Mungo's had been awkward because of the overwhelming amount of things left unsaid between them. The air was heavy with it, words of adoration and forever clawing at Pansy's throat and threatening to suffocate her because she'd kept them in. There were so many things to say that she hadn't known what to choose. He'd looked equally lost, and she'd let him walk away from her. It wasn't until days afterwards that she'd known what she had to say, but Potter had been shutting everyone out then, hardly leaving his apartment as he recuperated from the stresses of the war by himself. He wouldn't see anyone then, not Granger or the Weasleys, and Pansy had been certain that, were he not seeing people he'd known for years, he certainly wouldn't see her. She'd decided to wait, bide her time until he was ready to come out into the public again and act like a normal human being. She'd thought the Order of Merlin ceremony would be her chance. She'd been wrong.

Boobie Ruby cleared her throat, and Pansy snapped out of her recollections to find the curious gaze of both Potter and Boobie focused on her face. She smiled. "What can I get you, miss?"

Pansy glared, feeling slightly satisfied with herself at the slightly fearful look that came over the girl's face. "If you don't want anything—" she started.

"I do," Pansy said harshly. She pointed to the meal she was ordering on the menu, her glare intensifying when Boobie looked at her expectantly.

Boobie looked at Potter, who shrugged, then down at the menu. "The lamb and potato special?" she asked meekly.

"Isn't that what it says?"

Boobie nodded rapidly, writing it hurriedly on her notepad before rushing away.

She turned to find Potter staring at her, and she ignored the questioning look he had in his eyes. "She didn't ask me what I'd like to drink," she said, raising her hand to call the poor girl back.

Potter grabbed her wrist before she could do so, his long, callused fingers enclosing around her wrist as if it were manacle. Her body reacted when he touched her, and she could feel the same heat she remembered beginning to burn in her chest. She glared at him. "What?"

"What's wrong?"

Pansy rolled her eyes. Merlin, this man was stupid. He was so _bloody _stupid. Hadn't he known anything? Hadn't he known how she felt? Pansy looked away from his eyes, focusing instead on where his hand held her wrist in a vice grip. "Dearest Ruby didn't ask me for my drink order, is what's wrong," she said. She tried to wrench her hand away from him, but he wouldn't let go. Pansy was emotional, but she knew better than to believe that she could pull away from Harry Potter. "Let go."

"Leave Ruby alone. You've terrorized her enough."

"It's hardly my fault she's dreadful at her job," she said.

He rolled his eyes. "No one will ever be good enough for you, Pansy."

The woman opened her mouth to respond, however she suddenly felt as if her was talking about something far different from wait staff. "Good help is impossible to find," she said.

Potter was silent for a moment then said, "That's my point."

"Oh, sod off," she told him.

"Merlin, Pansy," he said, annoyance creeping into his tone. "Why the hell are you so bloody hostile?"

"I was born this way," she stated, allowing his annoyance to fuel her own. It was easy to be hostile and angry with someone when they were treating you the same way, and she glared at Potter for good measure—to make sure that he kept the irritation coming. She wanted to be angry with him and didn't rightly care if he became angry with her in the process. Because she was angry. "You can hardly fault me for it if I just _came out_ this way. That's how some people are. Bad seeds and all that, you know?"

"You were perfectly fine before," he reasoned.

"Forgive me, but you're unabashed flirting with your precious 'gem' Ruby has vanquished any good mood I'd managed to muster for the occasion. But don't look so down, Potter. Now you have the real me, as beautiful and bitchy as the day I was born."

He rolled his eyes. "I _wasn't_ flirting with her."

"Of course not, Potter," she replied. "You don't flirt."

"What?"

"You don't flirt," she repeated. "The girls have made it so easy for you nowadays that all you need to do is look at them and they're thrusting their breasts in your face and dropping their knickers at your feet." She glared at him. "It's nauseating."

"You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh, Potter, Potter, Potter—"

"Stop calling me 'Potter'!"

She started at his exclamation, though quickly regained her cool and sent him a dry look. "What shall I call you, then? _Mr_. Potter?"

"Harry," he said, exasperated.

"God,_ no_."

He sighed. "Pansy, we've known each other for —"

"Oh, don't you dare give me that speech," she said quickly, cutting him off. "Granger gives me that speech, and it only works when I'm highly intoxicated and in a slightly good mood. But you—" She stared at him for a long moment. He was still annoyed, but his expression was open. She sighed. "You are Potter. You will always be Potter. End of story."

He didn't look pleased with her response. "I don't think you want me to be anything else."

"Of course not," she replied, though once again she got the impression that he was talking about something completely different from the matter at hand. And she hated that toying around, that he inserted snippets of a conversation they had yet to have into this one, making her choose her words carefully so they could apply to both situations. He thought he was smart. He seemed to have forgotten how utterly willing she was to _go there_ and just _say it_. "Do you _want_ me to be anything else?"

"I call you Pansy, don't I?"

Pansy rolled her eyes. He'd ignored her question completely. "You could call me the Queen of bloody England for all I care right now, Potter."

"You're not making sense."

"Well, you're not saying what you mean."

There was a pause. "Why won't you call me Harry?" he asked.

She frowned. Merlin, she hadn't known he was this serious about the name thing. She looked at him curiously. "Why do you want me to?"

He didn't respond immediately, and Pansy totally grilled him, almost as if she was trying to read the answer in his eyes. "Because we're friends," he finally said. His words were slow and precise, as if he'd taken the time to make sure they were exactly what he wanted to say.

Pansy scoffed. "Is that what they call people like us now?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, don't play coy, Potter," she said. He could play dumb so well. So well that, were she a stupider girl, she would totally buy it. If she were nicer, she'd probably let him get away with it. But Pansy Parkinson was neither stupid nor nice, and Potter was shit out of luck. "You know exactly what I mean."

He rolled his eyes. "Sorry, I don't speak your kind of 'vague'."

"Oh, so you snog all of your friends, not just me?"

"_What?"_

"Don't look so shocked," she told him calmly. "What conclusion was I supposed to draw? Because the only way I could only be your friend is if you snog all of them. Not to mention where you fancied putting your hands when—"

"Pansy!"

"Do you touch Weasley that way too?" she asked. "I know he's got different equipment but—" She stopped abruptly, noticing the green tinge to his cheeks. "I'm sorry, Potter. Was that supposed to be a secret?"

"That's _revolting_, Pansy," he told her. "Ron and I are _friends_—nothing more."

"But _I'm_ your friend too, right? You touch _me_ like that. Why not Won-Won?"

"Bloody hell, what's _wrong_ with you, Parkinson?"

"Nothing's wrong with me," she said simply. "I'm fine." Fucked-up, insecure, neurotic, and emotional; Potter made her as fine as ever.

"I can't believe you'd say such a thing about me."

"Really?" she said dryly. "Why ever not?"

"You've first-hand experience with my…" He paused, searching for a word, "…masculine proclivities."

Pansy threw her head back and laughed.

"I'm serious!" he said.

She continued to laugh, choking out a strained, "I know."

"You're impossible," he said finally.

"Oh, lighten up," she rejoined. "Masculine proclivities? That was hilarious!"

"I was attempting to be abstract!" he said. "We're in a public setting, and I hardly want everyone in this place to know that I fancied grabbing your—"

There was a pointed _ahem_ from across the room. Pansy and Potter looked at each other, then turned to the direction the interruption had come from. They found an older wizard staring back, a book on his table and his food pushed to the side as he gave the pair a patient look.

Potter hurriedly turned his head, a bright red blush staining his cheeks. Pansy smiled at the man; he tipped his head in her direction and went back to his book.

"I can't believe he _heard_ me," Potter whispered.

"Well, you weren't exactly using your 'inside voice'."

"Still! I almost said—" He broke off abruptly, looking around the café to see if anyone else was staring, "…well, _that _out loud."

"You did," she agreed, annoyingly cheerful. "You're a bad man, Harry Potter. A bad, bad man."

"How can you be so nonchalant about this?" he asked, flabbergasted. "I thought you cared about what people thought of you…"

Pansy scowled at him, wondering if she should express her displeasure at his blatant crack at her vanity. "I _do_ care," she told him huffily. "I've simply stopped caring about what _these_ people think."

"These people?" he repeated, puzzled.

She smiled depreciatingly. "Potter, there is nothing you can possibly say to make the people in London think less of me."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, wake up and smell the post-war era, Potter. No one likes me or my family, and they're making sure we know it."

"How?" He didn't sound pleased to hear what she was saying, and Pansy was struck with how foreboding his voice was.

"You're aware of how bad my father's company is doing. No one will do business with him because of what the public thinks it knows about his involvement in the war. I can't shop where I want or dine where I like because shop owners don't want the likes of me in their shops."

"They ask you to leave."

"They _tell _me to. I've even had problems with this fine establishment." She waved her hand emphatically. "The dear owner wouldn't even allow me to have a cup of tea here."

"Thelma?"

"Yes, Thelma. The woman threatened to call an Auror and everything if I didn't leave."

Potter sighed and looked away from her. "I didn't know things were like that for you."

"They're like that for a lot of people."

He started to contradict her, but Pansy barreled on, telling him that he should've said exactly where he used to put his hands. Boobie Ruby would've heard and told his whole fan club, and even though it was a piece of cake for Potter to hit it and quit it now, he'd have them lined up outside his door after that. Potter told her to grow up, and begged to have his groupies left out of the conversation.

Pansy grinned. "If I started calling you 'Harry,' there'd be no telling me apart from them."

He let out a short, sardonic laugh. "You're _definitely_ not a groupie, Pansy."

"That's what people will think when they see us eating lunch together—that you asked out one of your groupies."

"Why can't they think that you're my friend?" he asked.

Pansy snorted. "Nice boys like you don't have bad girls such as myself as friends."

"I know bad girls," he said. He sounded like a four-year-old telling mummy that he was a big boy and could shower by himself. Pansy smiled.

"Humor me," she said.

"Fine." He paused for a moment, then said, "Marietta Edgecombe."

"Marietta _who_?"

"Marietta Edgecombe," he repeated. "She was a year above us, in Ravenclaw, and she betrayed that the DA's meeting place was in the Room of Requirement to Umbridge."

Pansy blinked. "Are you serious?"

"What?" he said. "Isn't that bad?"

She rolled eyes in exasperation. "You're ridiculous!"

"Okay, fine," he huffed. He thought for a moment, then snapped her fingers and exclaimed, "The Patils!"

The Patils had opened a 'men's club' somewhere in Dover after they'd all graduated Hogwarts. Only, it wasn't a 'men's club.' It was a brothel, and everyone knew it. The Ministry simply couldn't get the evidence to file charges against them. Padma had been in Ravenclaw, after all.

"Fine," Pansy said. "Give me another."

"But I just gave you _two_."

"That's hardly enough evidence to prove that you know 'bad girls'," she told him. "You only know two."

"Two requires a plural," he countered.

Pansy shook her head dismissively, tapping her finger on the table. "More."

Potter crossed his arms and looked at her stubbornly. "No," he said.

Pansy grinned "You don't know anymore, do you?"

"Not anymore _sluts_."

Pansy grinned. "Potter, I daresay that was rude."

"What do you want from me?"

"Exactly what you said you were going to give me: a list of all the bad girls you know."

"But bad isn't the same for you and me. What I think is bad, you think is child's play."

"Says something about your categorization skills, doesn't?"

"No," he countered, "it says something about _yours_. I don't think you're bad."

"Really?" she said. "Why ever not?"

"Because you're not. You're whiney and a bit of a shrew, and you can be a bit… mischievous—" She laughed. "—and have a tendency to mock people, but—"

"I don't think I can take anymore, Potter," she said, cutting him off.

"But I'm getting to the good part."

"There _is_ no good part."

He opened his mouth to say argue however soon shut it, choosing instead to frown. "Fine," he said, "you aren't good."

"I'm not."

"Fine."

"You said that already."

"So what?" He frowned.

There were silent for a moment.

"You're upset," she said.

"I'm not."

Pansy rolled her eyes. "God, Potter, you're such a _girl._"

"Shove off."

"You act like Granger," she remarked.

"Yeah, well, _you_ act like Malfoy."

"I don't act like Draco," she said incredulously. "_You_ do."

"What?"

She leaned back in her seat, eying him nonchalantly from across the table. "I'll be the first to say," she said, "that Draco's a changed man from the boy I dated in Hogwarts, and he doesn't engage in the same romantic behavior anymore, however I find myself thinking that you may have acquired it when he gave it up."

"And what's this behavior?"

She smiled wanly. "You both cheat on your girlfriends."

- - - - - - - - -


	3. Part 3

30

Title: Stalking Harry Potter 3/4

Author: Empath Apathique

Note: Thanks to all for the lovely reviews. Here is the third installment in Harry and Pansy's lunch debacle.

- - - - - - - -

Pansy and Potter were having an awkward moment.

Joy.

At present, Harry Potter was studiously ignoring her, his expression sullen and pouty as he dug into his cottage pie. He was eating very slowly—playing with his food, really—though his fork made the most obnoxious noise as it scraped against the china.

It was the most horrendous sound Pansy had ever heard in her life, and she flinched whenever she heard it, her shoulders hunching and fork going slack in her hand, and she had to restrain herself from snatching the utensil away from Potter and stabbing him to death with it.

Merlin's balls, Potter was such a bleeding _baby_.

The man absolutely could not deal with the truth. He'd stared at her in complete shock after her comment about his errant dating behavior, and Pansy was pretty sure he would've simply continued to stare at her in silence if Boobie Ruby hadn't come along to bring their meals.

He'd mumbled a polite thanks to the blonde when she'd set down his food, waving her off when she asked if he'd like something else in a completely un-Potter-like way. Boobie Ruby had noticed, and she'd turned and glared at Pansy as if to blame her for Potter's sudden change. And Pansy _was_ to blame for it, however she hadn't been about to let a woman she referred to as 'Boobie Ruby' involve herself in their conflict. She'd glared right back at the blonde and shooed the woman away.

Nearly ten minutes had passed in silence. The sole tomato and mozzarella appetizer lay untouched between them.

While Pansy thought that Potter was behaving like a child and was of the mind to let him sit there and sulk for the entirety of the meal, watching him sullenly pick the carrots from his dish struck a cord in her somewhere. It was like watching a two-year-old tear up and cry after a reprimanding; one wanted to be firm, but the scene was just so bloody heartbreaking that one had to give in and cuddle the tot.

Only, Potter wasn't a tot, and watching him sulk wasn't exactly heartbreaking. However, it was annoying enough to kill her appetite, and she threw down her fork and glared at the man huffily, waiting for him to look at her. He didn't.

"Potter."

His fork scraped his plate.

"_Potter_."

He pushed aside his peas.

"Harry."

He glowered at her. "What?"

Pansy rolled her eyes. "Merlin, must you behave like such a child?"

"I don't know, Pansy," he quipped. "Is it exactly childish to show that you're hurt when someone has just trampled all over your feelings?"

"Trampled over your _feelings?_" she repeated. Merlin, did the man have a flair for melodrama. "I was stating a _fact_," she said.

"Facts hurt!"

"What would you like _me_ to do about that? Pretend like it isn't true to _spare_ your precious feelings?"

"I've never asked you to _pretend_, Pansy—"

"Oh, bollocks, Potter!" She paused, staring at him angrily. The conversation took a dramatic turn with a single word—'pretend'—and she couldn't stop the words that next left her lips. "Our whole bleeding relationship _exists_ because you asked me to pretend. Pretend that there wasn't a _war_ or _Voldemort_, or that I being held prisoner by a man who was out of his bloody mind." She glowered at him, leaning forward as she glared. "And I pretended for you, as if it was the only way that I could survive!"

"You don't think I was pretending too?"

"Of course you were. You were pretending you didn't have a girl waiting for you at home!"

He shook his head, and it was almost as if he were trying to shake her words away. "Why does it always come back to that?"

"Why shouldn't it? You have a _girlfriend_, Potter! You've _always_ had a girlfriend!"

He looked down at his unfinished meal. "Things between Ginny and I were complicated then," he said.

"It's complicated, it's complicated," she repeated angrily. "You've _said_ that already, Potter!"

He looked at her, confused. "What are you talking about?"

She rolled her eyes again, annoyed with his stupidity and memory and just _everything_. "When I asked you about the future Mrs. Potter before," she said, "you told me that things between you and sweet Ginny Weasley were _complicated._"

He blushed a furious shade of red, his cheeks rivaling the color of the tomato. "I wasn't talking about—"

She cut him off before he could continue. "Save it," she snapped. "It's _always_ complicated!"

He shook his head. "You're not listening," he said.

"No, _you're _not." They were both silent for a moment. "Regardless of how 'complicated' things were between you and your girl during the war," she said lowly, "I certainly don't think you made the situation between you and carrot-top better by flying over to the manor and getting in a snog with me before you went back home to her."

His temper flared at the implication, and Potter glared at her once again. "I never left the manor and went to Ginny. _Ever._"

"And I'm to believe you?"

He looked at her insistently. "You _have_ to."

"I don't take orders from you or anyone else," she said derisively.

The insistent look didn't leave his eyes. "I wouldn't _do_ that to you, Pansy."

"And your words are _empty_, Harry Potter."

He looked down again. "You know how I feel about you," he said softly.

"Oh, piss off." She tried to continue with her feigned nonchalance, however the soft, anguished tone of his voice brought her back to the stolen moments they'd shared together during the war, a time she clung to in her dreams but was now so viciously bashing.

He'd sounded like this before, one night so very long ago. She hadn't expected him, as it'd been a Tuesday, and he'd made a point to never visit so close to her weekly tea with Lucius. However, this night he had, ignoring his usual behavior and flying right in through her open window. Instead of waking her, he'd sat in the chair beside her bed, and he had spent more than an hour staring down into her face as she'd slept. His hand on her skin had been what had awoken her from her sleep, and even though Pansy had been frightened at his unexpected presence in her room, her heart had welcomed him. They'd already kissed once, twice, and even though she'd told him never again, she could deny him nothing when he'd looked at her, green eyes shining with an unnatural pained light. His voice had been soft, sorrowful—just as it was now—and when he'd asked her to pretend, she hadn't needed any words to tell him that she would. She'd gone to him, only a thin gown covering her form as she stood before him. She'd stepped between his legs and had wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him to her as he'd buried his face in her chest and cried.

She'd find out later that Neville Longbottom had died, jumping in front of Potter and taking the Killing Curse Voldemort had aimed at the distracted man's back. And Pansy had decided then and there that she'd never deny this man the comfort of her arms for the rest of her life.

But things were different now. They no longer had the stress of the war and the sorrow it brought to force them together. Even if things _had_ been complicated between Potter and his girl when this thing with Pansy began, she knew for a fact that they weren't nearly as complicated now.

"Pansy."

She shook her head, keeping her eyes focused on the table.

Potter reached for her hand. Pansy slapped his away as soon as she felt the heat of his skin against hers, however he was insistent, and quickly snatched her hand and held it in his, his large fingers encasing her own.

"Pansy," he started.

"_Piss off!"_ She lifted her eyes to stare into his, her blue irises reflecting anger off their glassy surfaces.

She didn't want to have anything to do with Harry Potter. And it was so heartbreaking, because he didn't need her to have anything to do with him anymore, either. He and Ginny Weasley had patched things up right fine, and the thought alone made Pansy's heart clench into an anguished little ball pain.

Pansy had learned of Potter and Ginny Weasley's reconciliation at the Order of Merlin ceremony—the even she'd viewed as her chance to tell Potter how she truly felt about him since he'd walked out of her room in St. Mungo's for the final time. She'd taken a trip to Paris for shoes and a dress—had gotten her hair styled in Milan by a Muggle who usually demanded his patrons make appointments six months in advance. But she had to look good, because she was going to tell Potter _everything_, and she could even swallow the bitterness at seeing Granger receive an award they both equally deserved.

She'd known it wouldn't be easy, as she was looking for Harry Potter and he'd just received another award and everyone had wanted to shake the bloody man's hand. The venue was large, and she'd found herself pushing through small crowds left and right. However, not twenty minutes after Pansy's search had begun, it had ended, and she'd stood in shocked silence as Draco Malfoy had stepped onto the stage—dragging his blushing girlfriend up there with him—as he'd dropped to one knee and had proposed to her right then and there.

It had been a touching display—if you were in to all that rubbish—and there'd been quite a few teary-eyed witches in the audience. But Pansy had far too much history with both Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger to feel anything towards their engagement but a tightening in her chest.

Daphne, who had miraculously appeared at her side after the proposal, had looked at Pansy's face and had started spouting off about the liver pâté and indigestion. She'd told Pansy to sit, go home and lie down. Pansy had grunted and told her annoyingly doting friend that she would sit, right after she gave her congratulations to the couple of the night. She'd sighed, momentarily forgetting her search for Potter as she'd made her way over to the newly engaged pair.

She hadn't wanted to congratulate them, not really. They'd been so happy at that moment—glowingly so—and Pansy had had a hard time quelling her jealousy. She had kind of wanted to tell them to take their happiness and shove it somewhere where she couldn't see its holy glow. All she could think of was how much time she'd spent with Granger over the past two years; Granger adored Draco, and she was pretty bloody sure she was every sodding thing his dreams were made of. And she'd been right; Draco had proposed, after all. But even though she and Hermione had become friends, Pansy hadn't exactly felt like walking over there and congratulating Granger for snagging a man who, once upon a time, had been intended for Pansy.

But Pansy's ties with both Granger and her groom-to-be went deep, Pansy having been in love with Draco for most of her life and ending up locked away with Hermione Granger for two years because of it. Even if she'd had the balls to skip out on the whole debacle, she'd probably receive a howler from Granger demanding to know where the hell she'd gone before the night was over. There would undoubtedly be a bit in there with Granger yelling that friends don't leave a party after a friend just got engaged, and Pansy liked to avoid Granger's rants as much as she could. Especially when said rant was about their friendship. Meh.

Unfortunately, it seemed as if the whole freaking party had surrounded the couple to wish them well. After ten whole minutes of waiting, all Pansy had been able to think was that it had better be _some_ goddamn ring. If it wasn't, Pansy had been ready to ring Draco's _neck_ for proposing when she'd been around, and making her stand in line to shake his bloody hand.

Indigestion, Daphne had said. Pansy had felt like barfing.

By the time she'd managed to get next to them, both Draco and Granger had been deeply entrenched in conversation with people she hadn't known. The fact had annoyed her, however Pansy had taken the opportunity to inspect Granger's ring. Gold band, moon-sized yellow diamond; it was a family heirloom, the first ring all Malfoy men gave their brides. Pansy had been able to tell that the ring was a little gaudy for Granger's taste, but Granger loved Draco, and she'd wear it for the sake of tradition.

She'd been struck by the thought that Draco's perception of tradition was a bit skewed. After all, he'd given the traditional ring to the non-traditional girl. Heck, Granger wasn't even non-traditional; Ginny Weasley would've been non-traditional. Granger was just _wrong_. But what did traditional really stand for these days, anyway? Wizarding Britain was tiny, and most pureblooded families already had an inbreeding problem; another generation of the mess and all their kids would be born squibs. No one wanted that. It was best to mix it up with a little Muggle blood, and who had better Muggle stuff than Hermione Granger? Yes, love had had something to do with Draco's decision as well, but Pansy hadn't wanted to think about that while she stood there, staring down at a gorgeous ring that she had really, really, really wanted to be hers. She hadn't wanted it anymore—she was kinda sorta over Draco, remember?—but she _had_ wanted it, way back when during a time she hadn't wanted to remember but could anyway, and it had hurt to see the ring on her best friend's finger.

Granger had pulled herself out of the conversation when she'd noticed Pansy at her side, and as soon as she was telling her unknown companion that she'd be sure to contact her if she needed help with wedding preparations, Potter had suddenly appeared. He'd been dressed finely in expensive black dress robes that had complimented his form nicely, and Pansy's mouth had gone completely dry to see him so dressed-up up close. Not to mention the fact that she'd been searching the damn room to tell him just how much liked him—and three little words pretty much said it all. She'd found herself completely unable to speak.

Potter had been standing off to the side, facing Draco. It was a position that left him completely unaware of Pansy's presence. She'd planned to rectify that, a happy smile on her lips as she'd extended her hand to tap the man on his shoulder when a flash of red appeared at his side. Ginny Weasley had completely launched herself at Potter; she'd wrapped her arms around his waist, looking up at him and giggling as he'd said something that Pansy hadn't been able to hear. He'd wrapped his arms around her as well, his fingers playing in her glossy red curls as he'd resumed his conversation with Draco.

"Pansy…" Granger had said, and Pansy had looked at her, eyes wide with shock. It had been the first time she'd realized that Granger knew about she and Potter, had _always_ known. Before Granger had been able to say anything else, Ginny Weasley had insinuated herself into their bubble as well, pulling the newly engaged woman into an unexpected hug and crooning, _"Oh, 'Mione, you're so lucky!"_ to her longtime friend.

Pansy hadn't been able to take the shock of seeing Ginny Weasley attached to Potter's arm. She'd been two seconds away from telling the man that he was the cream in her coffee only to realize that she could never be the cream in his, because he already had something in his coffee: Ginny Weasley. Pansy had likened the broad to something icky like half-and-half—or skim—and had told herself that Potter was missing out, because Girl Weasley could never be something as decadent as her.

But it had _hurt_. Seeing Ginny Weasley on Potter's arm had hurt so badly she'd clutched at her chest to make the pain go away. Granger had been snatched away by _fucking_ Ginny and there had been no one—not even Daphne—around to take note of Pansy's pain. She'd stood there, hand on her chest and cheeks ashen from shock for nearly a minute before she'd wrenched herself away from the situation and left the auditorium entirely. She'd stumbled down the front stairs in her heels, kicking them off when they'd become too much of a bother and continuing in her stockings.

The scene of Ginny Weasley launching herself against Potter's side and him welcoming her with open arms—literally—had replayed in Pansy's mind like a bad dream, and she'd found herself wondering why she'd been there, with him, and behaving as if nothing had changed at all.

Because things _had_ to have changed, because Pansy had gotten involved and she fucking _loved_ him and she'd been so sure that he'd loved her too; how could things be the same after that?

And yeah, she'd known that he'd had a girlfriend then. But it hadn't seemed like too pressing of an issue when she hadn't even been allowed to venture out doors, let alone see anyone besides Potter, Granger, and the madman who had locked her up. Ginny Weasley had merely been a bad thought back then. She hadn't existed in their world of letters and late night visits and ravishings against her bedroom wall. She hadn't existed in Malfoy Manor—their world—at all.

And Pansy had realized something very important then: Ginny Weasley may not have existed inside their world at Malfoy Manor; however, Pansy did not exist inside their world _now_. And _their _world—the Ginny-and-Potter-are-in-love world—had been the _real_ world, leaving Pansy in some strange place she hadn't recognized, alone.

Draco's proposal and Pansy's realization about Ginny and Potter's relationship amounted to a major double whammy, and Pansy had gone straight home and climbed into bed, not even bothering to take off her party dress. She'd curled herself into a tight ball, pulled the covers over her head and tried to tell herself that none of this hurt at all.

She looked at him now, and she couldn't even find it within her to care that the stupid wanker could see that her eyes were full of tears. "You didn't have to do that to me," she said, her voice low and heavy with unshed tears.

"Pansy, I've done nothing to you!"

She let out a choked, sardonic laugh. "I suppose you didn't," she said. "You only ever promised me was to get me away from Lucius Malfoy. You've been done with me for awhile."

"No," he told her, shaking his head vehemently. "I'm not—"

"I saw you, you know," she said quickly, cutting him off before he could continue. "At the Order of Merlin ceremony. I saw you with your girlfriend." He was looking down at the table, almost guiltily, and Pansy smiled sadly to herself, feeling the first of her tears begin to fall.

"I've been following you," she said, forcing false cheer into her voice as she pushed her tears away. "I'd heard you were going to be in Diagon Alley today—from Granger—and I came."

A voice in her head yelled at her to stop, to shut her mouth and stop talking before she told him everything and left herself in a worse situation than she was already in. She'd already embarrassed herself enough with this whole debacle. She'd seen the way he'd looked after she'd told him she'd seen him and Girl Weasley together. She had no business telling him that she'd been following him as well. She was supposed to be done with this man, not digging herself deeper into a hole with him. At this rate, it'd be impossible to dig herself out of this; she'd never be able to have a normal relationship with a man again.

She looked down at their joined hands, then gently tugged on hers to pull away.

"Pansy—"

"Please," she said, her voice nearly breaking.

Startled, likely by the foreign emotions she was exhibiting, he released her.

Pansy brought her hand to her chest, wrapping the fingers of her other hand around it as if to cradle it. "I've been asking everyone about you, trying to find out what you're up to and where you've moved and—" A thought struck her then, and she stopped abruptly, raising her eyes to stare straight into his. "Why did you come see me?"

He seemed confused by the sudden shift, and could only mumble, "What?" in response.

His confusion grated on her already frayed nerves and she glared at him. "Two weeks ago—a Sunday." She leaned forward in her seat, a stubborn set to her lips. "Why did you come see me?"

He looked reluctant, torn, and she could tell he didn't want to answer her question.

"Why?" she asked again. "I know you were there, and I know you waited." He still didn't respond, and Pansy was struck with how utterly unfair it all was, for Potter to have all the answers. She was floundering, searching for answers he wouldn't give. She realized then that she might not like the answers he had to give, and Potter, ever the considerate _fucking_ sweetheart, probably wanted to spare her fragile female heart.

And to _hell_ with that. Pansy didn't need _anyone_ deciding what she need or need not hear in an effort to protect her stupid heart. The bloody mess had already been trampled on after watching the display between Potter and his girlfriend at the awards ceremony; she doubted anything else could make it hurt worse than it already was.

She kept her eyes focused on her plate, unsure if she'd be able to stay calm if she looked into his face. "Stop bullshitting me," she said. "You had something to say to me. You wouldn't have taken the trouble of discovering that I was staying in Brighton if you hadn't. You came _three times_ the week before—"

"And you weren't home!" he intruded, green eyes bright with anger. "I figured it wasn't meant to be if—"

"You figured _nothing_!" she shouted. "You came back that Sunday!"

His anger left as quickly as it came. "I had to tell you," he said softly. "I _had_ to."

She could feel her anxiety begin to build, something desperate and afraid clawing at her gut. She recalled her previous thought, that she wouldn't like what he had to say at all, and a part of her wanted to get up and leave before he said anything. But was having a non-aching heart truly worth the piece of mind the truth would afford her? Could she honestly just leave and pretend that they'd never done this—that she'd never gotten so close to discovering exactly what she wanted to know—and had simply walked away?

Pansy Parkinson was many things, but a coward was not one of them. She utterly refused to follow the typical human route and clam up, covering her ears and blocking out his words because she was a _pussy_ who couldn't handle the truth. A part of her—the same part of her that was telling her to run away—shouted that she _was_ a pussy and she _couldn't _handle the truth, because the truth _hurt_ and she was a girl and was going to cry.

Pansy didn't listen. Instead, she stepped closer to the edge. She looked down one last time, and then, no regrets whatsoever, she jumped.

"What did you want to say?"

Potter looked at her, and it was as if he was working with that voice in her head, because his eyes kept asking her if she _really_ wanted to know. The same reluctance from before had returned; however, no one could ever accuse Potter of being a pussy, either, and he took a deep breath, looked her square in the eye, and answered her question. "I moved into the Burrow."

Something in her died.

Years later, when she wasn't quite so young and bitter and spent the mornings picking the gray out of her hair, she'd still remember this moment as the most agonizing experience of her life, the crushing pain ripping straight through her as it squeezed her broken little heart for all it was worth. The poor muscle couldn't take much more of this torment, and Pansy found herself with one hand pressed against her chest in an effort to stop the pain. She could feel its tortured beats against her palm and in her fingers and everywhere on her skin, the anguished _thumps_ pounding in her ears as if it were someone incessantly banging on a door. Vaguely, she realized that her chest was heaving, that she was probably hyperventilating and should probably _chill out_, but she couldn't. He'd moved into the Burrow, with Ginny Weasley, and _fuck_ that, the whole family still lived there. She lived there, and now he was living. With her.

And she should've listened to the bloody voice in her head, because it had been right—so fucking right. And now she _so_ wished she didn't know. Morgana _fucking_ Le Fay could call her a pussy for all she cared, because at least if she'd been a pussy she could've run away and not have heard the _shit_ that had just left Potter's lips.

She realized then that he was talking, his lips moving rapidly as he undoubtedly attempted to explain _when_ he'd moved in and _how_ it had happened and _why_ Pansy shouldn't be upset because _Ginny Weasley was his fucking girlfriend_.

She didn't know what he was really saying. She wasn't listening.

But Ginny Weasley _was _his girlfriend. And she'd been thinking it all day, but it was at that moment that it truly hit her, so hard she felt as if she could fall out her seat with the force of the realization. Ginny Weasley was his girlfriend. Ginny Weasley would always be his girlfriend. He'd never seen the possibility of a _them_ at all.

And this shouldn't have hurt so badly, because she'd been thinking this shit all goddamn day. Hell, the reason why she spent ten minutes every morning for the past _three months_ telling herself how much she _didn't _like Harry Potter had been because she'd realized this _three months _ago, at the awards ceremony. But somehow it was kind of different now, seeing him look her in the face and tell her that he'd moved into the Burrow and had probably asked Ginny's father for her hand, and sweet Merlin, he was going to _marry_ the broad.

It was so easy to joke about it, to think about it in the nonchalant way she had for the past three months and it not really hit her, because it hadn't been in front of her face then and Pansy had the bad habit of ignoring things that weren't in her face. But now it was, and it fucking _hurt_, because Harry Potter was going to marry Ginny Weasley even though he'd spent the last years of the war sucking on Pansy's lips. Because she'd simply been something to _do_ the entire time. Stress relief and all that. The warm and willing body Lucius had intended for Draco when he returned home. Only Potter hadn't taken it that far. Because he had morals and that redheaded _slut_ at home to take care of his 'masculine proclivities' for him.

Pansy stood up then, wobbling a bit on her heels from the suddenness of the action. Potter stood too, his eyes wide and expressing something Pansy didn't have the inclination to decipher because it hurt too bad to think about what was held in those eyes. Because she used to think that they'd held some kind of emotion for her, and maybe they had, but Potter had moved in with Ginny Weasley, and everything she'd thought didn't mean a thing.

"I'm leaving," she said. Her voice was hoarse and low, and it wasn't until then that she realized tears were streaming down her cheeks.

She stepped around the table and Potter followed her, grabbing her arm and forcing her to look at him. "You're not listening to me, Pansy," he said forcefully. "Let me explain."

"You don't have to," she told him. "Let me go. I'm going."

He sighed, frustration emanating from his form. "Just _listen_," he said. "I moved into the Burrow two weeks ago, the last time I stopped by."

"You came to tell me, I know." She tried to wrench her arm away from him. "I'm done, Potter. Let me go."

"Not until you _listen_ to me," he insisted.

She shook her head. "I don't need to."

"But you don't _understand—_"

"There's _nothing_ for me to understand," she snapped. "You moved in with her. You came to tell me. We're _done_." She stared into his eyes, feeling something violent and angry stir within her. "You've got some nerve, Potter, coming to see me for that. I already knew we were done." She managed to pull away then, and she took a few steps away from him lest he try to grab for her again. "But it's okay, _Harry_," she said. "_I _was the stupid one. _I _believed that all the rubbish that transpired between us during the war would stand for something now." She gave a short, scathing laugh. "Silly me."

Pansy picked up her purse, clinging to it as she clung to the righteous anger rising inside of her, doing everything in her power to make sure she was angry and that she stayed angry. If she didn't, that agonizing pain would creep up on her again, and Pansy wanted to be alone with a decanter of Firewhiskey before so she could cry her eyes out in sweet drunken peace.

Potter ran a hand through his dark hair in frustration, making it even messier than it'd been before. "Why won't you _listen_ to me, Pansy?"

"Because I don't have to," she said. "There is _nothing_ you have to say to me that I want to listen to, and I refuse to stand here and allow you to waste anymore of my time."

"I can't believe you," he said, looking at her as if she was some alien creature he hadn't seen in all his life. "You accuse me of giving no value to what we have, and yet _you're_ the one who walks away from me when I try to explain myself. _You're_ the one that doesn't care about it!" he shouted.

"Stop speaking about it as if _you_ do!"

"I _do_ care," he argued. "Nothing has changed for me."

She looked at him, aghast. "You filthy tosser!" she exclaimed. "Do you think you can have your cake and eat it too?"

"What the bloody hell are talking about _now_?"

Her vibrant eyes narrowed into accusing little slits. "I will _not_ be the warm and willing body for you to go to whenever you _please_, Potter," she told him. "Tell me, does your girl know you're such a cad?"

He threw his hands in the air in frustration. "What's _wrong_ with you?" he shouted. "Why in Merlin's name won't you _listen_?"

"_You're_ what's wrong with me," she said. "And you want to know something? I went to the awards ceremony only to see _you._ I'd let you walk out of my room at St. Mungo's without telling you how I felt, and I'd gone to the stupid ceremony to make things right." She could feel vestiges of that familiar pain scrape at her heart again, however Pansy remained firm, steady, continuing to stare into his eyes even when her own filled with tears. "I'd spent so long looking for you there, and when I saw you talking with Draco, I felt so lucky, because I knew that was my chance. I was only two seconds shy of tapping you on the arm and pulling you away when your girlfriend showed up and sank her claws into you and—" One, then two tears fell from her eyes. "And I knew. I mean, who wouldn't? What's the point of saying 'I love you' to a man who has another woman wrapped around him like that?"

"Pansy," he whispered, and she could've sworn his voice sounded as pained and broken as she felt.

She shook her head, blinking away her tears. "I'm sorry, Potter. I knew you and Ginny Weasley were hitting it off again and I _still_ started following you, some godforsaken part of me that didn't _get it_ expecting something from you that I knew deep down you'd never give. I'm sorry," she said. "_I'm sorry_."

"Don't be sorry," he told her, his eyes a strange mix of relief and anxiety as reached for her again. "It's okay—"

"Don't touch me!" she shouted, knocking his hands away. "Don't talk to me. I'm leaving, and you're going to let me go."

"I _can't_," he said desperately.

She paused, and then said, "You don't have a choice."

She turned to leave, telling herself to keep going long enough for her to Apparate home before she broke down in tears. She managed to get out of the café before his large hand encased her shoulder and he pulled her back. And she kind of snapped then, because where did he get off, constantly pulling her back and dragging her through the ordeal of looking in his eyes and seeing everything she'd ever wanted but knew she couldn't have _because he had a girlfriend_ looking back at her. She couldn't _take_ looking in his eyes again. Merlin knew she was about to break down as it was, and she refused to dissolve into a sobbing ninny right there in public simply because _he_ couldn't let go. Because to _hell _with what Harry Potter could do. He had Ginny Weasley hanging on him. It was his fault entirely.

With a fury previously unknown to her coursing through her veins, Pansy rounded on the man, hand raised in the air as she smacked him right across the face, his head snapping to the side with the unexpected force of the action. Her chest was heaving afterwards, and she could see the beginnings of a beautiful purple bruise beginning to blossom on his right cheek.

"Don't touch me," she said, jerking away from him. "Just—just _don't._"

He was still staring at her, stunned, and Pansy took the opportunity to get away from him, hurrying as fast as her feet would allow her without running. She didn't even bother to take notice of the shocked expression on Boobie Ruby's face; she watched Pansy run out the door before hurrying over to help Mr. Potter and inspect the damage that excitable hussy had done to him.

Pansy found herself rushing through the crowded streets, bumping into witches and wizards left and right as she attempted to put as much distances between her and Potter as possible. She hardly had a clue as to if he'd follow her or not, but Pansy didn't want to think about that. She didn't want to _think_, really, but it was impossible to leave one's brain in one place while one travelled to another and still remain conscious and _alive_. And no matter how much Pansy hated her life and herself at that very moment, depression hadn't crept in on her yet, and she had no urges to remove her brain and be dead. Or throw herself in front of the Hogwarts Express, which would be simpler and possibly less painful, and sweet Merlin, why the _hell_ was she thinking about this?

When she realized she'd reached the main street, Pansy slowed her gait, her chest heaving with exertion from her speedy trek. She looked around, finding herself in front of the Apothecary, near The Leaky Cauldron. She wondered if she should leave then, head out of Diagon Alley and go home to have the good cry she'd promised herself. The thought of the empty house in Brighton left Pansy feeling cold, and she wondered if she should return to her family's ancestral home near York and spend some time with her father. It would undoubtedly be a way to escape the loneliness of her empty house, but she hardly felt in the mood to deal with her father's incessant attentions as he tried to make up for all the mistakes he'd made when she was a child.

The silly man seemed to think that he could make up for neglecting her as a tot by smothering her now, and while he was a dear man and truly did try, Pansy wasn't use to having her father spending so much time in her face. She usually saw the man once a week, spending Sunday afternoons with him and having a light supper before she returned home. He'd know something was wrong if she went there today, and the man absolutely wouldn't quit until she told him what was wrong. She'd most certainly gotten her stubbornness from her father, and Pansy had no urge to yell at the man and tell him to 'piss off,' because there was no way in hell that she was telling _anyone_ of what had just transpired between she and Potter. She wished she didn't know herself.

She looked towards The Leaky Cauldron and sighed, turning around and heading down the main street of Diagon Alley for the second time that day. She remembered when she'd first arrived, excited energy burning just beneath her skin. She'd told herself that she was so excited because she was on the cusp of finally discovering what Potter was up to, but, of course, it had been a lie. She had been excited because she was finally going to see him after three months and hell, she was in love with him. It was cause for some excitement.

Pansy's steps halted and she looked down at the cobblestone beneath her feet.

She was in love with him.

_Merlin._

It was the first time she'd allowed the thought to freely pass through her mind in months, and it left an odd sensation in her chest, as if a ball was being bounced through the hollow cavity and had given off a dull sound in its wake. It was almost painful, but not quite. It felt almost as if she was permanently stuck watching the singular lackluster moment in a phenomenal play: almost painful in its tedium despite knowing it would get better. Only, you were stuck there in that dull moment. And it was agony, because you knew it _could_ get better, while also knowing that it wouldn't, because you were stuck.

That was what being in love with Potter was like.

Pansy began walking again, passing Quality Quidditch Supplies and the stationary shop as she continued on her way to nowhere. Only being in love with Potter could have such a botched metaphor to describe it, and she could feel that same pain from the café come at her again, eating at her fragile heart like acid and not even bothering to leave its bloody remains.

She thought about going home again, to that decanter of Firewhisky, a box of tissue, and that comfy easy chair in the sunroom, but strangely didn't find the thought comforting at all. Which wasn't odd, because _hello_, who found getting drunk and crying all by your lonesome to be comforting? She didn't want to be alone, and if she wasn't going home to see her father, she didn't have anywhere to go.

She could always go see Granger, though she knew the woman enjoyed spending her days cuddled up in front of the telly with Draco, and Pansy showing up red-faced and teary-eyed would surely throw a wrench into the routine. And even though she and Granger were friends and the woman would totally do the 'friend' thing and say it was okay and that Pansy could stay and cry and impose for as long as she liked, Pansy didn't feel right intruding on the engaged couple's bliss with her dejection. Besides, seeing two people that goddamn happy nearly twenty-four hours a day wouldn't be good for her in the state she was in; she'd be liable to go and throw herself under that train.

There was Daphne, of course, but Daphne was kind of weird and got far too excited when she had company. She'd start speaking very quickly, and Pansy likened her to the three little chipmunks she'd seen on the telly at Granger's place; she talked that fast. It was kind of annoying when you listened for too long, and Daphne never got it that sometimes she should shut up. Pansy figured it was safer that she stay away from Daphne's place, lest she throw _her_ under that train and be sent to Azkaban for murder.

Pansy passed by Madam Malkin's, stopping when she spied the squat witch through the window, bustling around the shop with a wide smile on her lips as she helped a young customer. She was very unsuspecting, Madam Malkin; she was the kind of woman you didn't mind inviting over for Thursday tea or ask to help you pick out your drapes, and Pansy had thought her a decent witch before she'd escaped from Malfoy Manor. She wondered how a woman who seemed so normal and kind could turn into the vicious creature that Pansy had witnessed, nearly snarling at the girl that she wouldn't serve 'Voldemort's _whore_' and to leave her shop immediately before she reported her as trespassing.

Across from Madam Malkin's was Florean Fortescue's, another shop owned by a person who allowed their ignorance to feed their prejudiced views. Looking around the main street, she realized there were more shops unwilling to serve her than shops that were, and the thought made her heart clench again. She wasn't wanted in this city. There was no use staying in a place where the majority of the people hated her, and the one person she wanted with all her heart to be close to rejected her for another, stepping on the heart that she'd placed at his feet.

Pansy began walking again, her pace quicker than it'd been before. Her father was right; they needed a change of scenery. India may not exactly be to her tastes but she was sure she could convince her father to relocate the two of them to some place that was. To France or the States, or Australia even—anywhere that they could go to escape the unwarranted stigma attached to the Parkinson name and have an equal opportunity to go into public and do things without being judged.

She'd go, she told herself. She'd get away from England and Potter and the pain in her chest. Flourish & Blotts, Twilfit and Tattings, Magical Menagerie—none of these places welcomed her in their doors. She bumped into an older wizard, looking up at him to apologize for the indiscretion, when he gave her a nasty look and went about his way, muttering something rude beneath his breath that Pansy had been able to hear quite clearly.

She ducked into the next shop on the street, hardly realizing that she was barreling into Reza Boutique.

"Pansy?" a woman questioned, her voice thick with a French accent. Pansy looked up at the short woman, watching as Thérèse Brèton ambled from the back of the jewelry counter before wrapping her arms around her in a tight hug. "Pansy, my love!" she exclaimed. "It has been so long!"

Pansy hugged the woman back mechanically, looking around and finding herself in the high-end jewelry store at the far end of Diagon Alley, just beyond Ollivander's. Thérèse Brèton ran the store with her husband, Alphonse. The couple had emigrated to the UK from Cannes, France, when Pansy's mum and dad were still in school, and had been serving the upper echelon of England's wizarding aristocracy ever since. Her father had purchased her mother's engagement ring from this very shop, and Pansy herself had fond memories of the place. When her father could spare the time, he would bring her here to pick out new charms for her bracelets, and the Brètons would close shop and allow Pansy to choose at her leisure while she ate the provided cheese and meats as her father sipped on champagne. Pansy had received very little attention after her mother's death, causing her to regard the shopping trips with a reverence usually unknown to most children under ten.

Thérèse released her and Pansy looked down at the woman, marveling at the fact that, once upon the time, their roles had been reversed; Thérèse had been taller, patting Pansy on the head and pinching her cheeks as Pansy smiled, staring up into the kindly face of the woman she'd considered a beloved aunt. She hadn't been to the shop in years—since before her incarceration in Malfoy Manor—and she was struck by how at home she felt here. Thérèse smiled at her as she pulled her further into the shop, prattling on about something or another as Pansy looked around at the beautiful pieces on display in the counters. The Brètons were masters of their trade, and their jewelry was regarded as some of the best in the country.

The décor of the shop reflected the supreme quality the Brètons' jewelry was known for; the walls were painted a soft, cream color with expensive pieces of artwork displayed in ornate frames. The floors were mahogany, polished to gleaming perfection, and a large, gilded chandelier hung from the ceiling. A sumptuous display case stood at the far end of the store, displaying some of the Brètons finer works over the years along with other decorative pieces; an opulent clock face with glossy numbers and long curled hands was carved into the top. It read a quarter to.

The boutique was a sea of opulent glamour, and Pansy was reminded of how giddy the thought of being surrounded by the most precious of gemstones used to make her. She'd been young and silly then, and had thought that diamonds were what made the woman. As she'd gotten older, she'd thought that it was the man that made the woman. She'd grown beyond that too; however, even though she vehemently agreed that the man didn't make the woman, she certainly wished she had one. And not just anyone. She wanted Harry Potter.

Pansy felt her heart seize, and it was so unfair—so _bloody_ unfair—that, after everything, she still wanted him, still loved him. She wished there was a button she could push to make her feelings go away. To turn off the stupid longing in her chest and make her feel blessedly numb to things like love and wanting someone who didn't want you. And if she didn't feel love then she wouldn't feel the pain. And Merlin knew that, above all else, she wanted the pain to go away.

"Pensée? Pensée?"

Hearing her name in Thérèse's native tongue snapped Pansy out of her introspection. She looked down at the woman, smiling in apology. "Je suis désolée, tante Thérèse. I'm distracted today."

Thérèse looked at her seriously. "Ma belle, I can tell! The look on your face—I had thought you saw a ghost when you rushed in. Are you running from something, Pensée?"

Pansy opened her mouth, a lie on the tip of her tongue. However, she'd known Thérèse for far to long to bother with a lie that the woman wouldn't believe, and she nodded at her instead. "Oui, tante," she answered honestly, the word 'aunt' slipping from her lips as easy as it had when she was a child. "Something."

"Nothing too frightening, I hope?"

Pansy shook her head. "Just a man," she said, all the while thinking that a man could be the most frightening thing of them all. After all, a man could break your heart.

Thérèse looked at her for a long moment, then smiled at her and said, "Well, mon chouchou, you needn't run here. Alphonse will protect you."

Pansy smiled. "Of course."

Thérèse soon had the boutique empty, ushering the patrons away regardless of if they were planning to make a purchase or simply browsing the display. There were quite a few who expressed their outrage at being treated so dismissively, but Thérèse hardly cared. She and her husband made jewelry for Muggle royalty; their work was so well-known and sought-after that they'd always have business, regardless if a few dismayed English wizards refused to enter the shop again.

"You didn't have to empty the shop for me, tante," Pansy told her. "I don't mean to take up too much of your time."

"Don't be silly, Pensée," she said. "It has been far too long. You will stay until we've properly conversed and caught up. It'll be just like old times!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands together in excitement. "I'll go get the cheese."

Pansy laughed.

"You stay right here, ma belle." She patted the cushion of a lush seat placed in front of a display case. "I will return in just a moment."

Pansy nodded, sitting daintily on the seat as she watched Thérèse hurry away. Something in her had lifted at seeing Thérèse. The woman had always made Pansy feel welcomed in her shop, and she was grateful beyond words that it hadn't changed with the passage of time. The Bretons had never been the type of people who easily bought into the gossip of the times, however the low opinion of her family had become so widespread that Pansy had begun to believe that everyone believed it—even people she'd considered as dear to her as family when she was a girl. She sighed, thinking about how things had changed. She could hear Thérèse shouting at her husband in French from the private office, and a smile lit her face once again. No matter how much some things changed, the Bretons would _always_ be the same.

Pansy reclined in the chair, marveling at how comfortable it was. It was of French design, armless with beautiful floral patterns stitched into the cushions and gilded gold frame. She imagined that most jewelry stores didn't have chairs—and especially not any as extravagant as _this_—though Reza Boutique was known for having what you couldn't find anywhere else. There was an identical seat next to the one where she sat, and Pansy wondered at it for a moment before looking over into the display case and realizing she was sitting in front of the engagement rings. Mystery solved.

Pansy leaned forward in her seat, looking at the glimmering rings showcased in the counter, wondering how many men had brought their darling ladies here to bejewel their fingers in an expression of eternal love. She'd spent a lot of time staring over this counter when she was a child as well, pointing out the rings her fiancé would buy her with fingers greasy from meat and cheese. Thérèse would laugh good-naturedly throughout, proclaiming what fine choices Pansy made and how she had an eye just as refined as her mother, and was making the woman proud. Because of that, her mother would certainly send her a fine man, one who would bring her to Reza Boutique to pick out her ring. He'd make her the promises every girl wanted to hear—of a beautiful home, lavish gifts, and forever love. Pansy found herself feeling rather cheated, having tried her hand twice at this love rubbish and still coming up short.

She'd viewed Draco as her everything when she was a girl, but she'd later realized that she'd forced herself into loving him rather than finding herself there of her own free will. When she'd been old enough to realize what love and marriage truly was, her father had pointed her in Draco's direction and had said, 'get 'em.' Proverbially speaking, of course, but still; the decision to pursue the young man hadn't been her own.

The union of the Malfoy and Parkinson families would bring about a legendary joining of two of the biggest companies in wizarding Britain. It was good for business—not to mention pedigree; few families had lines as pure—and wealthy—as those of the Malfoys and the Parkinsons, and Pansy's father had been sure to explain to the young girl. Her sole duty in life had been to marry Draco and produce suitable—i.e. male—heirs, and Pansy had buried her claws into the task and gone at it for all she was worth. She'd wanted to be useful to her father, to receive more of the glowing attentions he gave her when she told him of something or another of no consequence in her and Draco's relationship. Draco didn't love her? So what? Not only had Pansy's father been pushing for the union, but Draco's had as well. Back then, Pansy had believed that Lucius Malfoy _always_ got what he wanted and was sure that Draco would have her—whether he liked it or not. She'd simply figured that he'd realize sooner or later that things would go a lot smoother if he loved her, too.

But Draco hadn't been about to throw himself into an indifferent marriage with Pansy for the sake of tradition, and Pansy had found herself floundering, looking for something familiar to hold on to in a playing field that had become completely different than what she'd been used to. She'd stupidly held on to her aspirations of becoming the future Draco Abraxas Malfoy even after he'd dumped her, her 'extended stay' at Malfoy Manor coming about as a result. But being locked up had served its purpose: she'd been cured of the stupidity that had plagued her in her youth, and of the troubling obsession she'd had with marrying the young heir to the home. But, of course, Pansy had picked up an obsession with Harry Potter there as well. And it was fucked, because he was Harry Potter, and she certainly could do without throwing herself at his self-righteous feet, but Pansy was prone to fixations, and Potter just happened to be her latest one.

Her heart thumped noisily with pain, causing a heavy anguish to wash over her form like the tide, ebbing before coming back again, stronger than it'd been before.

She sniffled, feeling the familiar pressure behind her eyes as they began to fill with tears once again. It was time she got out of there, she thought. It'd been lovely seeing Thérèse again, but she needed to get home. She needed to sit herself in a corner and cry. She thought about her original plan of curling up in that comfy chair and crying her eyes out, but decided that Potter had been too big of a _thing_ in her life to cheapen her mourning with such luxury. She'd sit in a corner, and when she got cold she'd have her house-elf bring her the ratty blanket she used to dragged around the house when she was a girl. It smelled of suntan potion and musk, and it'd suit her purposes just fine.

Pansy started to get up, adjusting the strap of her purse as she turned towards the door. The door to the office opened then, and Pansy turned to see Alphonse yelling something about cheese back at Thérèse.

"Oncle Alphonse," she said, hurriedly wiping her tears. "Bonjour."

Alphonse turned, exclaiming, "Pensée!" when he saw her. His accent even thicker than that of his wife, and it was familiar enough to bring a smile to the pained woman's lips. He let the swinging door close, grinning widely as he approached her. "It has been too long!"

"It has," she agreed. He placed a medium-sized velvet jewelry box on the glass counter and embraced her. He ruffled her bangs and kissed her forehead, and Pansy was hit with a wave of nostalgia yet again. "How have you been, oncle?"

"Well, ma bichette, well! Has Thérèse told you?"

Pansy's dark brows rose in question. "Told me what, oncle?"

"About my commission!"

"To hell with your commission, Alphonse!" Thérèse shouted from the other room. "Where is the cheese?"

He shouted back a curse that made Pansy's cheeks color, and she wondered if _this_ was the fate of marriage, to become angry and bitter with one another in old age. She found that she wouldn't mind terribly so to be in Thérèse Brèton's shoes. Only if the opulent jewelry store was included, of course.

Thérèse cursed back at Alphonse quite colorfully, and Alphonse shook his head, muttering under his breath. "Forgive me, ma bichette. You know that woman brings out the worst in me."

Pansy smiled. "I'm sure."

"She goes on and on about the cheese. 'Alphonse,' she says. 'Pensée is here. _Pensée_ is here. We must feed her cheese. Where is the cheese?' And I tell her that there is no cheese, because she fed it to that fat woman." He huffed indignantly. "The woman came and ate it all. The… the Madame Bulstrode." He looked at her conspiratorially. "Pensée, elle est laide comme les sept péchés capitaux."

He'd called Millicent's mother ugly as sin. Pansy, who'd always likened Beulah Bulstrode's appearance to that of a frightened bat, giggled in agreement.

He allowed her a moment to laugh before he spoke again. "Thérèse has told me that you are running from a man," he said conversationally. "I can see it in your eyes—they are red with tears."

Pansy sobered quickly, looking down at her hands to escape Alphonse's probing eyes. "It's not so bad, oncle," she said quietly.

"Nothing you can't handle, right?" He clasped her on the back and laughed. He was a very lighthearted man, prone to melodrama, though never taking anything beyond his jewelry too seriously. Pansy was grateful. "Now," he said, "let me tell you about my commission. Pensée, it is the most detailed work I have ever been asked to make. So beautiful, so intricate—a part of my very heart went into in its creation. It is magic itself!"

Pansy smiled at his dramatics, wondering if the piece was in the velvet box he'd placed on the counter when he'd hugged her. "I take it making it went well?"

"Of course!" he exclaimed. "I am Alphonse Brèton! _Everything_ I make goes well."

Pansy nodded emphatically. "Of course."

"But listen, ma bichette," he said, serious once again. "No man is worth your tears. You are too good—too beautiful. Find a man who won't make you run from him and cry. Because no man is worth it, yes?" He nodded himself. "Except maybe the man who commissioned this piece. He is worth every woman's tears—tears because they cannot have him!" He laughed heartedly.

"May I see?" Pansy asked, smiling good-naturedly. Alphonse always made wonderful jewelry, and while she was used to his dramatics, she'd never seen him quite so proud of himself. The piece had to be something.

"Of course, ma bichette, of course! I used to show you everything, Pensée, remember? And you'd touch my diamonds with your oily hands and send Thérèse into hysterics!"

Pansy frowned. Thérèse had been known to spank her bottom when Pansy got something on the jewelry. It wasn't exactly a fond memory.

"But you are a big girl now, all grown up and crying about men." He smiled. "I am very old."

"Yes," Pansy said diplomatically, "but you are also very wise."

Alphonse laughed again, moving around the counter and picking up the box. "You are just like your mother—you appeal to my sensibilities." He sighed, then looked at the clock. "The man who had me make this was supposed to stop by at noon to pick this up, but he is a busy man and was held up, so you are very lucky, my Pensée, for you're not supposed to see this at all."

Alphonse opened the velvet case, revealing the glimmering bracelet within. Pansy was momentarily blinded by the shine the diamonds gave off, however she recognized it immediately. Seeing the telltale curved boarder and diamond-encrusted petals shaped into abstract crowns made her heart stop completely, and her hands shook as she reached out to touch the familiar piece.

Her bracelet. It was her bracelet.

Just then, the clock above the display case struck the hour, and Pansy looked up to see that it was three. Realizing the time caused something in her mind to click_,_ and Pansy swallowed, feeling as if something had suddenly clogged her throat. The clock's chimes filled the shop as the front door opened. And, Merlin help her, but Harry Potter was standing right there.

Pansy's heart stopped.

- - - - - - - -


	4. Part 4

Title: Stalking Harry Potter 4/4

Author's Name: Empath Apathique

Note: Final installment, guys. Enjoy.

- - - - - - - -

"Monsieur Potter!"Alphonse exclaimed. "What good timing you have! I've been expecting you!"

Potter's eyes remained focused on Pansy's face, and her heart started back up immediately, its pounding increasing exponentially. Pansy could hear the warning bells in her head—telling her to look away from the bastard or her heart was going to beat right out of her goddamn chest—but she couldn't. Lucius Malfoy could have suddenly decided to grace them with his appearance in a tutu and ballet slippers and she still didn't think she'd be able to look away from Potter's eyes. And Lucius may have thought her the silliest girl in all of Britain, but she wasn't. Delusional maybe, but Pansy Parkinson had never been stupid.

Standing there in Reza Boutique, her shaking fingers barely touching the bejeweled surface of an exact replica of her mother's broken bracelet, things began piecing themselves together in her not-stupid head. And for some reason, she was scared.

Potter's eyes shifted to the counter—to the bracelet—before looking back at her, realization dawning as he stared into the frightened blue depths of her own.

"…are very late, sir!" Alphonse was saying. "I hope you did not run into trouble, Monsieur Potter!" There was a pause in which Alphonse expected a response. "Monsieur Potter? Is there something wrong?"

Potter finally looked away from Pansy's eyes, focusing on Alphonse. "No trouble, sir," he said, and Pansy had never heard him sound quite so distracted in all her life. "Forgive me. I was…" He glanced at Pansy again. "…caught up over lunch."

"Not matter, sir, no matter! It happens to us all." He laughed good-naturedly, stopping suddenly when a thought struck him. "Would you like some cheese, Monsieur?"

Potter looked startled by the question. "Not particularly, Monsieur Breton. I've just had lunch and—"

Alphonse cut him off before he could continue. "I will get you some cheese. Thérèse!" he shouted. "Bring some cheese for our guest!"

"Guest?!" Thérèse screeched from the other room. "Get that person _out! _We are closed!"

Potter looked very uncomfortable, and Pansy blushed, finding herself embarrassed by the antics of her surrogate aunt and uncle regardless of her age. They'd always been like this, completely unashamed of who witnessed their arguments. It didn't matter if it was the Minister of Magic or the President of freaking France; they'd curse and fight to their hearts content, onlookers be damned.

"You silly woman!" Alphonse yelled. "It is Monsieur Potter!"

"Monsieur _who?_"

"Monsieur Potter! The man who commissioned me to make the greatest piece of my entire existence three months ago! _The_ Monsieur Potter!"

Pansy looked down at the bracelet, then at Potter's face. Three months… That would mean that he had the bracelet made around the time of the Order of Merlin ceremony—the last time she saw him, with Ginny Weasley.

Oh _God._

"I don't care _who_ he is!" Thérèse was shouting. "Pensée is here! We are closed!"

Alphonse cursed again. "Ma bichette," he said to Pansy as he made his way to the back room, "keep our valued customer entertained for a moment. I must speak to that woman!"

"But oncle—" Pansy protested, panic welling within her as she looked between Potter and Alphonse's retreating form. She was thoroughly ignored, Alphonse yelling something about cheese and the _Monsieur_ as he disappeared through the swinging door.

Pansy swallowed, suddenly feeling very nervous to be left alone with Potter and this bracelet—_her_ bracelet—and all it could possibly mean. She looked down at the glimmering piece, picking up the velvet box it was in. It shook in her hands, and it was then that she realized her knees were wobbling a bit as well. She sat back down in the chair with the finesse of a wounded water buffalo, cringing at the sound the seat cushion made as she plopped her weight onto it.

And it was so stupid, because Potter was standing _right there_ and her bracelet was _right here_ and all she could think about were water buffaloes and Hermione Granger and all that shit Granger had spewed at Pansy about fate and kismet and all of that. Because some things simply weren't supposed to happen. There just was no chance of it.

Potter was supposed to be in love with Ginny Weasley and about to settle down with _her_, not having expensive jewelry made for Pansy bloody Parkinson in the form of her dead mother's broken bracelet. And it _had_ to be for her, because Potter wouldn't get _this_ made for anyone else. Pansy was supposed to be at home, crying her eyes out at how unfair it all was and how _stupid_ she had been to think she could _possibly_ have a chance with Potter because _hello_, he was _Harry fucking Potter_. No one had a chance with him but girls like Ginny Weasley or Hermione Granger, because they were Gryffindors and good. But Potter couldn't have Granger, because the bint had been swept away by Draco Malfoy—which hadn't been supposed to happen either, because Draco was bad and _should've_ become a Death Eater and _should_ be dead now. So he was supposed to be going with his best mate's little sis, because she was the next best thing.

Harry Potter wasn't for stupid, Slytherin girls like Pansy Parkinson; the fact that he'd moved in with the Weasley girl had been the brick to the face that had finally shown Pansy this. He'd had his fling, and now he was done with her (and, really, that stupid fling wasn't supposed to happen either, because he was Harry Potter). And yeah, he was probably feeling bad right now for breaking her fragile female heart and all that rubbish, but he was supposed to be running off to his three o'clock appointment anyway, and then back home to his good Gryffindor girl in her good Gryffindor house with her good Gryffindor family—the family he'd never had.

He wasn't supposed to be standing here, in one of the only places Pansy was welcomed in the whole of Diagon Alley, picking up a bracelet that could only be for her and looking for the life of him like he was going to say something that would change both of their lives forever.

Kismet, Granger had said. Because some things just aren't meant to be.

Pansy shut her eyes, feeling the tears already begin to form. He shouldn't be here, he shouldn't have done this. He should be at his three o'clock appointment—probably discussing wedding plans with that nice witch Granger had conversed with at the Order of Merlin awards ceremony. And Pansy—she shouldn't be here, either. After she fled the restaurant, she should've gone to Brighton, to York—should've hurried home straight away, told her father to get his things and be in the process of making a formal request to the Ministry for a one-way portkey to Bangalore. But bloody kismet had gone and botched the whole thing up, and now here she was, sitting in Reza Boutique with a man who'd broken her heart not a half an hour ago, holding a bracelet that was screaming that he'd tried to do quite the opposite.

Sweet _Circe._

"You're really hard to talk to, you know."

Pansy jolted at the sound of his voice. It was soft, almost hesitant, and a little pained—the exact tone that she could never refuse.

She had the urge to slap her hands over her ears and shriek 'la, la, la!' at the top of her lungs so she wouldn't hear what he had to say.

"You've always been this way," he continued, tone still soft, pained. Pansy wondered why her hands where still gripping the velvet box and not covering her ears. "So sure of yourself and of exactly what everyone else is going to do and say that you're hardly willing to actually listen."

"I _do_ listen," she countered weakly, eyes still tightly shut against her tears.

"You don't," he said.

"You don't _speak_, Potter."

"You won't let me."

Pansy was struck by how much closer his voice seemed now than it had before, and was startled when she felt his hands against her trouser-covered thighs.

"Look at me," he said. His voice was low, throaty; he sounded so close to her now, hands that had grabbed her arms in an effort to get her to stay now gently gripping her legs. All she could think was that she hadn't been this close to Potter in months. She hadn't expected to be ever again, either. Oh, how things had changed over the past half-hour!

"Pansy," he said gently.

Slowly, she opened her teary eyes to comply with his request. He was kneeling at her feet, hands on her thighs as he situated himself just barely between her legs, green eyes looking into her baby blues expectantly.

"I love you," he said.

She closed her eyes again. It didn't stop the tears.

"Don't cry," he told her, his arms coming to wrap around her waist as his hands rested on the small of her back, holding her. "Please don't cry."

She shook head, a miserable sob escaping her lips. "I don't _want_ to," she said, opening her eyes to look at him. He looked torn, both disturbed by her tears and amused by her response. She wanted to hit him.

"Then stop."

"Forgive me if there isn't a button to turn them _off_, Potter." She lifted one of her hands to wipe at her eyes.

"I hate it when you cry, Pansy," he said, raising one of his own hands to rest on her wet cheek. Feeling the heat of his hand on her skin made the tears come even faster, and Pansy shut her eyes again, mentally bemoaning how utterly unfair it was. Whenever she'd imagined a man telling her that he loved her, she'd imagined herself being cool and together, hair perfectly coiffed and face made up to perfection, a dazzling smile on her lips as she proclaimed she was simply a _lovable_ kind of gal. She didn't think that she'd look like this: face red and blotched with tears streaming down her cheeks; and—she noted in horror—snot most assuredly dripping from her nose.

And Merlin, who got _snot_ when they cried at a time like this? Girls weren't supposed to have _snot_. It was right up there with 'flatulence' on the list of Things Girls Do Not Do: drip snot when they cry.

_Granger_ hadn't even had snot. Pansy had heard all about the 'I-love-you' incident in she and Draco's relationship from both parties, and while Granger had heartedly cried her eyes out after he'd said it—in horror, because Merlin knew they'd never be able to pretend it was nothing after _that_--they'd never mentioned _snot_ in their story. And it was a funny story, and Draco liked telling funny stories, and certainly would've had the time of his life relaying how there'd been _snot_ as well.

Bloody hell, it wasn't fair _at all!_

Oddly, she wondered if Ginny Weasley had cried when Potter told her that he loved her, and, if she had, if she'd had snot, too. Which, of course, made Pansy wonder if Potter had ever told Ginny Weasley that he loved her, to which she immediately answered in the affirmative, because Potter simply was that kind of guy. God, you saw how easily he'd said it to her, right? It'd taken Pansy months to even admit that she'd liked the man, and she'd prepped herself an entire week straight before she'd planned to tell him at the awards ceremony. Obviously, the attempt had fallen through when she'd seen him with Ginny Weasley, but still. And oh, God, what did he _mean_ he loved her? Did that mean he loved _just_ her, or that he loved her too, in addition to loving his girl?

Pansy bawled.

She could feel Potter's rising distress emanating from him in waves, and she couldn't find it in herself to tell him to chill. She certainly wasn't okay; why should he have the luxury of being utterly at ease when she was freaking out—with _snot_? No, Harry Potter could be as distressed as he wanted to be right now. _She_ needed to cry. If he was still upset when she was finished, then _maybe_ she could tell him to chill. Maybe.

Oh Merlin, what was she thinking about _now_?

"Pansy," Potter was saying. "Pansy, _please_. You _know_ I hate it when you—"

"Oh, shove off, Potter!" she said, pulling away from his hand and covering her face with her hands. If she had snot coming from her nose she certainly didn't want him to_ touch_ it. It was almost as gross as his irregular underwear from the second-hand robe store. Sweet Circe, she was going to the side girl of someone who wore irregular underwear. "How do you think _I_ feel?" she asked him angrily, her voice muffled from behind her hands.

It was a loaded question, she knew, but at that moment, she felt she had the right to ask such things of him. After all, he'd just told her he loved her in addition to loving Ginny Weasley. And she was so much better than that. Ginny Weasley couldn't even wear _pink_, for Merlin's sake! She was a redhead—pink made her look ill. Did Potter know how luscious Pansy looked in pink—how completely electric and _cool_?

But maybe Potter hated pink. Maybe he just liked red—as in, red _hair._ Pansy could never pull off red hair. She was too pale.

Oh, this _so _wasn't fair.

Potter, who'd been quiet for a moment, suddenly said, "I don't know how you feel." He paused again. "Not right now."

Pansy found it in her to stop crying in her hands and bemoaning her shoddy lot in life—because Merlin, who got _snot_?—to look at the man, finding him staring down at her legs. Which was a weird place to stare, because she didn't even have on a skirt and he wasn't ogling anything but her charcoal grey trousers. Maybe he was trying to pull off that 'I'm-looking-down-because-I'm-demure-and-confused' thing she tried her hand at from time to time. But that was a girl thing and Potter was a guy, so that was a no. But he _was _kneeling at her feet, so she supposed the only place he _could_ look down to was her legs, despite her lack of a skirt.

God, she thought about weird shit when she was stressed.

But Potter was talking.

"…suppose I do, because you did say that you loved me in the café—or that you were going to tell me that you loved me, but does that mean you don't love me now? I mean, you're crying and stuff, which has to mean _something_, but you've cried over silly things like a botched batch of soap at Malfoy Manor. But then you ran away and now you're crying and—"

"Sweet Merlin, Potter," Pansy said seriously. "_What_ are you talking about?"

"How you're feeling," he said, a bit miffed that she'd cut him off.

"You're babbling," she told him. "Please rephrase for clarity."

He rolled his eyes and huffed, rolling back on his heels and crossing his arms against his chest. "You're crying," he said simply.

"I am." She sniffled for good measure.

"Is it because I told you that I love you?"

Pansy looked down at her lap, where the new bracelet had fallen when she'd pressed her hands against her face. She picked it up, running her fingers over the sparkling exterior with fingers wet from her tears. And snot, she realized. She grimaced, removing her fingers from the bracelet's surface.

"Pansy—"

She shook her head, smiling sadly as she studied a bracelet that was an exact reproduction of the one she'd worn for nearly all of her teenage years. "It's just a bit much to process, is all," she said. "There was lunch, which was… painful."

He placed a hand on her thigh once again, rubbing her leg in what Pansy assumed he thought was a soothing gesture. She could think of it as nothing but vaguely sexual, and she swatted at his hand to make him stop. She didn't need any distractions. Especially not the lure of sex. Meh.

"But," she continued, pushing thoughts of the possibility of sex out of her mind. "There's now too: you being in love with me and this bracelet." She smiled at him, her lips lowering when she thought of his girlfriend. "And then there's Ginny Weasley."

Potter shook his head. "Ginny doesn't matter," he said insistently.

"She _has_ to matter, Potter," she told him. Her voice was soft but firm, and she found that she couldn't look at him while she spoke of her. "She _loves_ you, Potter. I _know_ she does."

"Why does that _matter_?" he asked her. "I love _you_."

Her heart sped up to hear him say it so forcefully, however she pushed the _squee_ that was welling in her away. She needed to say this.

"Pansy," he was repeating. "I love you—"

"But she's your _girlfriend_, Potter."

He stopped suddenly. "My what?"

Pansy glowered at him. Why was he so stupid? "Your _girlfriend_," she said. "As in, the girl you're dating and may possibly marry. The woman you're living with. Merlin, Potter, don't be thick."

He looked at her as if she'd grown an extra head. "Are you serious?"

"Are _you_?" she countered. "I hardly think establishing your relationship status requires this amount of effort."

"My _what_?"

She threw her hands in the air in frustration. "Not this again, Potter…"

"I broke up with Ginny three months ago!"

For the billionth time that afternoon, Pansy's heart skidded to a halt. It stopped and didn't restart. It just stood there, still, leaning straight through her ribcage to look into her eyes, as if to say, 'what now?'

And, well. Pansy didn't quite know what to say, either.

"You… what?" she mumbled dumbly.

"I broke up with her!" he repeated, glaring at her angrily. "I can't believe you!"

"You broke up?" Something akin to glee was building inside of her, causing her heartbeat to quicken something fierce. "Really?"

"Of course I did!" he told her. "What was I supposed to do—date you both?" It seemed to dawn on him then that that was exactly what she'd been thinking. He stared at her, incredulous. "You can't be serious, Pansy!" he said. He removed his hand from her leg, rising to his feet with a swiftness that startled her. "Are you mad?"

Pansy frowned, not at all pleased with his attitude. "What was I supposed to think?" she asked him, watching as he paced back and forth before her, anger practically oozing from his pores.

"That I want to be with _you_—only _you_!"

"Well, it isn't as if you did a very good job giving off that impression," she rejoined. "Today's the first time I've seen you in months!"

"I took you to lunch!"

"_Seamus Finnegan_ takes me to lunch!"

He stopped then, turning to look at her. "You're dating Seamus?"

She rolled her eyes. "No," she said, "he takes me to lunch. That's _it_."

He didn't look appeased. "Why?" he demanded.

"Because he _wants_ to," she said. "He thinks I'm hot and that feeding me will make me throw my supposedly lax morals to the wind and shag him silly."

He nearly choked. "You're _shagging_ him?!"

Pansy threw her hands in the air in exasperation. "Are you _listening_ to me?" she asked him. "He takes me to lunch! He asks me every so often and I say yes. We eat. He takes me home. That's _it_."

He huffed, though appeared mollified by her response.

And Pansy—because she was _Pansy_—just had to go and muck it up.

"Even if I _wanted_ to date him," she said haughtily, "I very well _could_. It isn't like I have anyone else."

He looked aghast. "I thought you said you _loved_ me!"

"What does that matter if you don't love me?"

"I _do_ love you!" he shouted. "I just _said_ I love you!"

"Well, I certainly didn't know that _then_! Besides," she said, "I thought you had a girlfriend. Wait—I always _knew_ you had a girlfriend. I played the role of your other woman through the war. I simply thought that you were waiting until everything in the bloody world wasn't quite so… _bloody_ to break up with her. But, silly me, you were only looking for some momentary _dalliance_ to occupy yourself with before you went back to your main girl." She glared at him. "Watching the two of you at the awards ceremony showed me that quite clearly."

He looked at her then. He wasn't glaring at her or anything—just looking. "You know," he said, "you go on and on about the Order of Merlin ceremony as if it only changed _your_ world—"

"It _did_," she insisted.

"There's more to life than just _you_, Pansy!"

"Yes, well, forgive me if I'm only concerned with what I feel is the most important part. The other part I felt was important had his _girlfriend_ on him like a bad rash, and I simply couldn't find it in me to—"

"I saw you."

Pansy stopped. "What?"

"At the ceremony," he said. He sounded strangely subdued, and as she looked at him, just standing there, perfectly still as he stared straight into her eyes with those haunting green orbs, she was struck by how important this moment seemed. "You wore black, right?"

Pansy nodded dumbly.

"It was tight, a little racy. All I could think when I saw you was that you wanted _someone's_ attention, and I prayed to Merlin that it was mine."

"I did," she whispered.

Potter looked away. "I'd planned to only speak with Draco for a moment. One moment, I'd told myself. Then I'd go to you. But you know how that man can be, and before I knew it, we were arguing about the Falcons."

Pansy let out a dry, bitter laugh. "I was forgotten over Quidditch," she said. "Lovely."

"Just _listen_ to me!" he snapped. "For once—_please_—just listen." Pansy nodded and Potter sighed, continuing with his tale. "I could swear that Draco and I had only been talking for a moment, but then Ginny was there. And she's kind of _always_ been there, and it's _always_been natural to touch her and—"

Pansy shook her head, almost as if she was trying to clear the image from her mind. "I don't want to hear this," she said.

"I _know_," he said. "But _listen_. She was there and I hugged her. Things have been on the rocks with us for _years_, and I still hugged her."

"Because she's always been there?" she repeated resentfully. She was being unfair; she knew she was being unfair. It just hurt, you know? He was talking about the first time he'd broken her heart as causally as the weather, and the thing was, it probably meant that little to him. Because Ginny Weasley _had_ always been there, and responding to her touch had probably become as natural to the man as _not_ brushing his hair. They'd dated for five years.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "By the time I turned around, you were already gone. I went after you, but you were _gone_, and I'm sorry. I hadn't meant for you to see that. I'm _sorry_."

Pansy nodded very slowly, wondering if she was truly forgiving him for what she'd seen. 'I'm sorry' always seemed so empty to her before—so weak. Could a broken heart honestly be mended with merely two words out of the entirety of the English language?

But if two words couldn't do it, then how many would? No words would ever be enough to apologize for the offense, and it was stupid of her to hope for more, because she wouldn't get them. It wasn't reasonable.

"Why didn't you go after me?" she asked quietly. "I _know_ you know where I live."

Potter sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. "I wanted to make things right first," he said.

Her brows furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"I didn't think it'd mean much," he said, sighing in frustration at her continued confusion. "I mean, imagine it: me showing up at your door after you just saw me with Ginny. What could I say that would make it better? What would 'I love you' mean then? Technically, I was still with Ginny, and I figured I'd do better to come to you when I'd freed myself of all my attachments and could offer what I thought you wanted."

And he had a point. She would've skewered him if he'd come after her that night. For some reason, though, she still wished he had.

"I broke up with Ginny that night. I placed the order for the bracelet the very next day."

Pansy looked down at the aforementioned piece, slowly nodding her head in understanding. "Because you broke it," she said.

"Yes, and I'd promised that I wouldn't. I don't know if it's perfect, but I wanted to make things right—as right as I could."

She looked up at him, and hell, her eyes were teary again. "It's perfect," she said.

Potter smiled then, and she could see the tension begin to drain from his shoulders. "I'm glad."

Pansy looked down, a blush staining her cheeks—which, she noted, he probably couldn't see because her cheeks were blotchy from all the crying she'd done earlier. And what had been the point of it all anyway, if he loved her and had pushed Girl Weasley off a cliff to be with _her_? A thought struck her suddenly. "Why are you living with Ginny Weasley?"

"I'm not living with her," he said, and she frowned when she caught the guilt lilt to his tone. "I'm staying in the same house."

"Draco stays in the same house with Granger," she snapped. "You're _living_ with her."

"I didn't have a choice!"

"Oh, come off it, Potter," she said, looking at him angrily. "Did Ginny _make_ you move in?"

"No, but her _mother_ did."

Pansy wasn't personally acquainted with the Weasley matriarch, but she'd been told from multiple sources that the woman could be hella nasty when she wanted to be, and had a way of getting people to do just what she wanted them to with her rotten temper. Pansy looked at Potter expectantly. "I'm waiting," she said.

He sighed. "I was homeless."

"_What_?"

"I forgot to renew my lease." Pansy blinked, and he continued. "I was supposed to renew it a few months ago if I wanted to keep my flat, and the owner really did remind me repeatedly, but without Hermione beating something into my face…" He sighed again. "I forgot."

She blinked. "You forgot?"

He nodded. "I did."

"Bollocks, Potter. No one is _that_—" She spied the sheepish expression on his face, and shook her head in exasperation. "You forgot."

"By the time I realized what had happened, I only had a few days before I had to move." He sighed. "I don't know many people I'm close enough to stay with. Ron lives at home and Hermione's living with Draco. And I certainly didn't want to intrude on those two. I'd gone to ask you but—"

"Wait," Pansy said. "You were going to ask to stay with me?"

Potter blushed a furious shade of red and looked down at his shoes. "Well, you've got all that room in that beach house you're staying in…"

Pansy shook her head in disbelief. "You're joking."

"I came by _three times_," he said. He looked annoyed then. "You're _never_ home."

She shrugged. "I like to keep busy. I find myself thinking about _you _if I don't."

He rolled his eyes. "Yes, well, if you'd spent more time thinking about me, I might be staying in one of your spare rooms and not sleeping in the smelly bed of one of the twins."

Pansy snorted. "Who says I'd have let you stay?"

Potter looked horrified. "You love me, don't you?"

"There, there," she said, placating. "Don't get your knickers in a twist."

He sighed in relief, then leveled her with an accusing look. "You're so _mean_, Pansy."

"So says the adulterer." Potter scowled, and Pansy waved her hand for him to continue. "You've yet to explain how you ended up staying with Ginny Weasley."

"I'm _not_ staying with Ginny!" he nearly shouted. "I was invited over by Ron."

Pansy's eyes narrowed in skepticism. "You said Molly Weasley made you."

"She _did_—after I was invited over to dinner by Ron. You know he still lives at home, and when he found out I was planning to stay at The Leaky Cauldron, he invited me over. It was only supposed to be supper—I _swear_—and Merlin knows the meal was awkward as _fuck_—" Pansy's brows rose at the expletive. "—because Ginny still lives there too and she spent the entire time looking at me with those sad eyes and I could hardly eat at all. All the while Molly kept making comments about what Ginny was up to and who she was seeing—undoubtedly trying to make me jealous, because the woman absolutely _flipped_ when she found out I'd broken up with her, and has been blatantly trying to get us back together ever since. I'd actually looked _forward_ to getting out of there and spending my evening in The Leaky Cauldron. I'd wanted to get away from _her._"

He was breathing a little heavy by the time he finished, and Pansy's had to fight to keep a smile in check. Oh, how she loved a good rant against a Weasley. She was _so_ in love with this man. "Sounds like you had quite the meal," she said lightly. "However, you still haven't explained why you're living there."

"I told you already—she _made_ me. Ron let it slip that I'd lost my flat and was staying at the Leaky, and Molly completely flipped again. Said there was no need for me to have to pay to sleep in a strange bed when there were more than enough free ones there. And that woman does _not_ take 'no' for an answer."

Pansy smiled tightly. "I've heard."

"I didn't want to stay. I _knew_ what you'd think, and I didn't want you to think that, but you did anyway and I realize it was stupid and I'm sorry. I've been looking for a flat since I moved in, but I _know_ that doesn't make up for it. I'm sorry. Again and again, a thousand times over: Pansy, I'm _sorry_."

Pansy was struck by the unabashed emotion in his words, the way she could feel how much he completely felt what he was saying exuding from his very form. He was _sorry_. And, huh, she thought. She believed him.

"You came that Sunday to tell me," she said slowly.

"Right. But, once again, _you_ weren't home. And I figured that I'd just tell you everything when I gave you that." He pointed to the bracelet. "Monsieur Breton had said it would take three months to make, and he notified me of its completion yesterday at work." He paused. "I was going to come see you today. I was shocked when I saw you in the second-hand robe store. I thought I could talk to you about everything then—that we could pick up the bracelet together."

"You were very optimistic," she said after a moment.

"I was," he agreed. "Foolishly so."

She smiled. "Of course."

"Do you understand?" he asked her, almost desperate. "I'm not living with her. Not like that."

Pansy nodded, swallowing as she digested his words. It was a lot to take in, though she couldn't deny how utterly entertaining it was, how animated Potter was when he told a story. Merlin, nothing could ever be simple with the man, and she marveled at how he'd gotten himself into such a complicated situation with the Weasleys and herself. Speaking of complicated—

"One more thing, Potter," she said.

He sighed in frustration. "What do I have to explain _now_?"

Pansy looked at him sourly. "Don't you get snippy with _me_. It's hardly _my_ fault you get yourself into such messy situations."

He rolled his eyes. "What do you want to know?" he asked.

"When I asked you how things were with the future Mrs. Potter—"

He groaned. "Not this again, Pansy…"

"_Yes_, this again," she said, sounding just as snippy as she accused him of being. "You said things were complicated. And I know you and Girl Weasley have just broken up and things are messy, but—"

He shook his head in exasperation. "Don't be silly," he told her. "I was talking about _you_."

Pansy jolted, started. "Me?"

He nodded. "Who else?" he asked, smiling.

Pansy looked back down at the bracelet, finding that she was too much of a pussy to continue to stare at Potter's face. Her hands were shaking again, and she realized that this moment was the _end_ to all the drama they'd had over Ginny Weasley. There was nothing else to be explained or apologized for. There was only _them_—the them she hadn't thought would exist not so long ago. And that was a reason for her hands to shake in and of itself: there was a _them_, as in, a Pansy and Potter _them_. A 'yes, we're seeing each other' _them_. If she wasn't already been sitting down, Pansy would certainly ask for a chair.

"Here," Potter said, gently tugging the velvet box from her hands. She released it mechanically, watching as he removed the gleaming bracelet from the clasps that held it in place. "May I?" he asked, a boyish grin on his lips. Pansy lifted her hand, her heart thumping wildly when his fingers wrapped around her own and he fastened the bracelet around her wrist. The once-familiar weight of the piece now felt foreign after its long absence. However, it was comforting, and in a wholly different way than the original had been. Instead of just having her mother with her, she had a piece of Potter as well, and Pansy found it to be a fabulous combination.

"Looks good," he said, fingers still enclosed around hers and he inspected the bracelet appearance on her wrist. "Just like the old one."

She shook her head. "It's better," she corrected. "Potter—"

"_Harry_," he told her. "Please, call me 'Harry'."

Pansy rolled her eyes. "Fine. Harry—"

He pulled her up from her seat and into his arms then, an arm wrapping snuggly around her waist as the he laced the fingers of his other hand with her own. Pansy startled at their sudden nearness. Her body was pressed against his and she would swear she could feel his heart beat against her chest, so close and steady that she couldn't tell it apart from her own. His warm breath blew against her bangs. She was level with his Adam's apple and sweet Circe, maybe Pansy was weird, but she thought Potter's Adam's apple was the sexiest thing since Blaise's _tush_. To her, an Adam's apple was a sign of masculinity, and the more one protruded, the hotter Pansy thought they were. Potter's had to be the most gorgeous one she'd seen yet, and she was struck with the urge to kiss it. He swallowed and, being so close, the action nearly made Pansy swoon. Forget kissing it; she'd stick her whole goddamn tongue down his throat and see if it was as sweet as it looked.

"Harry," he said again. "Harry."

Pansy wasn't sure if he was aware that he'd just dazzled her with his Adam's apple—he looked a little smug—but she nodded anyway, not finding it in her to argue. "Harry."

He grinned. "Good." He leaned forward, and his lips slowly came closer to hers. "I'm going to kiss you now, Pansy," he murmured.

She didn't bother to respond.

He kissed her, and Pansy's heart did its own rendition of the 'Cha Cha Slide' up and down her ribcage. It'd been so long since she'd felt his lips against her own, and it was amazing how nothing about them had changed. His kisses were still soft and slow, steadily building up to match the raging need that burned within both of their hearts. He kissed her as if he'd never kissed anyone and would never kiss anyone again, as if her lips were the feast he'd always craved and would be denied forever more as soon as they broke away. He kissed her like he'd die if he didn't, like the world would stop spinning and the sun would burn out. He kissed her like _she_ was dying and his lips were the only thing that would keep her alive, and Merlin knew the man had a hero complex the size of Jupiter. He'd kiss her until _he_ died, and would follow her to wherever just so they could continue to kiss.

He kissed her like he loved her, and Pansy realized now that he'd _always_ kissed her like he loved her. Nothing had changed at all.

She pulled away, looking into his face with eyes once again full with tears. "Oh, Harry," she whimpered, and he hugged her then, lifting her straight off her feet as she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her face into his skin, clinging to him for all she was worth.

"I love you," he said, burying a hand in her hair as he embraced her fiercely. Pansy nodded against his neck, feeling her tears drip down her cheeks and onto his skin as she whispered back the sentiment repeatedly.

"I won't stop," he told her, his arms tightening around her lithe form. "Not with you. I can't, Pansy, I _can't_."

She pulled back to look at him, her hands coming to rest on her cheeks as she kissed him. "Don't even _think_ about," she said.

He smiled. There was a noise from the other end of the shop, and the pair turned to see Alphonse and Therese peeking through the swinging door. The older couple was so caught up in a petty squabble that they hardly noticed they'd been caught spying.

"We should get out of here," Potter—Harry; _Harry_—said, placing her back down on her feet. He wholeheartedly refused to remove his hands from her form. He looked up at the clock. "I'm a little late for my appointment, but I'm sure they'll have me."

"What appointment?" she asked, staring at him curiously.

"I'm looking for a flat," he said. "I told you I've been looking. Work has slowed the search quite a bit, but I think I'll like this one. It's in Hyde Park, near—"

Pansy leaned forward on his toes and pressed a kiss to his lips, effectively shutting him up. "You don't need to look for a flat, love," she said.

His brows furrowed in confusion. "I can't stay at the Burrow. I don't think Molly would fancy me bringing you over for a snog in the sitting room after dinner."

Pansy hid a smile. "Don't be stupid, Potter," she said. "As if I'd ever visit _that_ woman's home."

"Pansy…" he chided.

She blinked at him innocently. "What? I'm simply saying there's no need for me to make a visit to the Weasleys."

"Really?" he said dryly.

She nodded once. "Yes."

"And how have you got this worked out in that conniving little head of yours?"

Pansy frowned. "I resent the implication that my head is anything but pretty, Mr. Potter."

"Of course you do."

"Harry…"

He grinned, be it at her huffiness or that she'd used his name. He pulled her close to him again, placing a light kiss at the top of her head. "Sorry, love."

Pansy rolled her eyes. "As I was saying, I refuse to visit the Weasleys. Flat-hunting is really such a bother, and considering you fancy me the future Mrs. Potter anyway—" She huffed, as if what she was saying was such a chore. "—you'll stay with me, in Brighton."

Harry's eyes lit up at her words. "You want me to move in with you?" he asked seriously.

"Why wouldn't I?" she said. "I certainly don't want you to live _there_."

"When I told you I was going to ask if I could move in with you, it was only going to be temporary…"

Pansy frowned. "Well, if you'd like the move to be temporary until you find your own flat, then by all means, don't make yourself comfortable at the home I'm offering you free room and board to stay in and find your own shit hole."

"Pansy…"

"What?"

"It's fine. I mean, if you want constant access to my body, all you had to do was say so."

Pansy snorted. "Sweet Merlin, Potter, _stop_ trying to be funny. Your jokes kill my soul."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah." He looked at the clock again. "Let's go."

"I thought we settled the mess about the appointment," she said, annoyed.

Harry shook his head. "Molly will be out running errands for the next hour, and I want to pack up my stuff and get out of there before she comes home."

Pansy smirked. "Why ever would you want to do that?" she asked. "Seeing the look on her face will be half the fun!"

Harry led her out of the store, his hand firmly pressed against the small of her back as the two argued about the merits of not pissing Molly Weasley off. They completely forgot about the French couple who was watching from the swinging door, smiling to each other as if it were a job well done.

"You see, mon ami," Alphonse told his wife, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips. "The bracelet—it was magic!"

Therese giggled girlishly, blushing at her husbands attentions. "It was, Alphonse, it was. Though," she said thoughtfully, "I wish I could've fed them some cheese!"

- - - - - - - -

_-fin_


End file.
